The Great Northern Maple Syrup Adventure, Part One
by nutmeg9cat
Summary: Fraser and Ray V investigate the mysterious appearance of restricted premium maple syrup in Chicago, in a story spanning two countries and many chapters. Set loosely in the second season, prior to All The Queen's Horses. Inspired by true events. This is my first Due South fanfic.
1. Chapter 1

**THE GREAT NORTHERN MAPLE SYRUP ADVENTURE**

**PART ONE: CHICAGO**

**CHAPTER ONE**

Detective Ray Vecchio swung the door to the Patrician Grill wide and stepped inside quickly, snow swirling at his feet. He looked around the nearly empty café, spotted his quarry, then moved to a booth in the back. "God, am I starving," he announced as he slid into the booth. "I could eat a hors–." He glanced at the man sitting across from him. "I mean, a lot of food," he amended quickly as he grabbed a tattered, splattered paper menu from the chrome stand on the table. His feet brushed up against an obstruction under the table. He bent and peered under it. "Sorry, Dief," he said, enunciating carefully and got a non-committal lupine grunt in reply.

Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police, (though currently dressed in civilian jeans and plaid flannel shirt) closed the book he had been reading and looked at his companion. "That's not surprising, considering that you've barely eaten for the past few days." He leaned in. "So, how –"

"What'll it be, boys?" the bleached-blonde waitress stood in front of them, slouching tiredly, order pad in her hand.

"Good evening, Rosie," Fraser said warmly, "how are you?"

"Car's in the shop, ex is behind on the support, and my bunions are killing me," she replied. "But thanks for asking."

Fraser reached into the leather compartment on his Sam Browne and extracted a small vial. He held it out to her. "I'm sorry I can't be of assistance with the first two problems but this should help the third."

She took the vial and peered at it curiously. "What is it?" She unscrewed the lid and took a tentative sniff.

"A tisane of lavender and hyssop, stirred into beeswax and lanolin with a bit of powdered alligator claw and just a pinch of sea salt."

As Rosie started to hand the vial back to Fraser, he held up his hands. "No, no. Keep it. I can always make more."

"Thanks," the waitress said, tucking the gift into the pocket of her apron. "I'll try anything at this point."

"You know, Rosie," Fraser said, gesturing at her feet. "bunions are a product of poorly fitting shoes. A problem that, interestingly, the Inuit don't have, due to the fitting of the mukluk to the individual foot. I could recommend –"

"Hey, Dr. Scholl!" Fraser and Rosie looked at Ray. "I'm trying to order here!"

Rosie gave him a sour look. " What'll it be?"

"Double stack blueberry pancakes, two eggs, over easy, double bacon, extra crisp, double hash browns, large orange juice and coffee." He paused. "And apple pie with vanilla ice cream for dessert."

Rosie raised her eyebrows, but jotted down the order without comment. "And for you, Constable?"

"A cup of the soup de jour to start."

Rosie made a face. "Actually, that's the 'soup de last week'. You really don't want that."

"Oh," Fraser said. "Then, I'll have the chili."

She shook her head dolefully. "That was Monday's meatloaf and Tuesdays refried beans."

He bent over the menu. "The chicken and dumplings, then."

"Dumplings!" she scoffed, "more like hockey pucks."

Ray couldn't stand it anymore. "Did I mention that I am actually faint with hunger? Another minute and I'm gonna keel over here."

Fraser closed the menu. "Why don't you surprise me, Rosie."

As she walked away, she muttered, "If I thought you _really _meant that ..."

"Thank you, kindly," Fraser called after her, then looked intently at his tablemate. "Ray, how is –"

"Where the hell do you find alligator claws in this city?" Ray wasn't sure if he wanted to know the answer, but he had to ask.

"Cajun grocery store." he replied. "Ray, how is –"

"Well, that's a relief! I wouldn't want to think there are wild packs of alligators roaming the city sewers next time we're down there chasing bad guys." Ray shuddered. "And I just know there _will _be a next ti–"

"Ray!" Fraser said loudly.

He blinked at him. "What?"

"How is your mother!?"

The grin lit Ray's face like the sun. "She's great, Benny! Just great! It was a small blockage. She's gonna be just fine." He sobered, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. "Not cancer, thank God."

Fraser smiled. "I'm glad, Ray."

"She'll be in the hospital a couple of days, a couple of weeks of rest at home, and she'll be good as new." Ray sighed happily. "Frannie's trying to convince her to take a couple of months in Miami. Spend the rest of the winter in the sun at her sister's. Since they're talking again."

"That would be a nice change for her," Fraser concurred. He was thoughtful for a moment, trying, unsuccessfully, to picture a winter without snow. "I've never been to Florida."

"What a news flash," Ray jeered. "_You've _never been south of the 49th Parallel."

"Yes, I have," Fraser protested.

"Sorry," he corrected, "the 48th."

"Now, Ray. You know very well that Chicago is situate on the 42d parallel." He amended, "Well, 41 minutes, 59 seconds, to be more precise."

"Oh, right. I forgot."

Rosie returned, setting down a huge glass of orange juice in front of Ray, water for Fraser, and filled their coffee cups.

Ray leaned back in his seat, stretching a kink out of his neck. He leaned in and lowered his voice. "I don't mind telling you, Benny, I was a little worried."

"Of course you were, Ray. She's your mother."

Ray raised his juice glass in a toast. Fraser followed suit with his glass of water. "To my Ma._ Cent anni_." At Fraser's puzzled look, he translated. "May she live to be a hundred!" They clinked glasses. Ray took a large gulp of juice and smacked his lips. Fraser sipped his water.

"Are you sure you want to work tonight? You must be tired."

"No, no, I'm too wired to be tired." Ray grinned. "Hey, I'm a poet and I don't know it. But my feet show it." He stuck out a shoe. "They're Longfellows!" He giggled and drank more juice.

Fraser hid a smile. Lack of sleep and a poor appetite combined with the massive relief his friend was experiencing was making Ray a little punchy. Well, tonight's stakeout would probably be as uneventful as the last few nights. If need be, he would cover for Ray if he took a nap.

Rosie returned. Fraser leapt to his feet and held the heavy tray as she distributed the plates. Ray's plethora of dishes crowded the small table. Diefenbaker poked his head out from under the table, a hopeful expression on his face. At Fraser's stern look, he retreated with a resentful whine. Fraser resumed his seat as Rosie gestured at his food. "Nick made it special, just for you."

Fraser eyed the green and pink-flecked omelet and sniffed appreciatively. "Smoked salmon. Artichoke. Green onion." He looked up at the waitress.

She gestured at the toast points. "I made him cut off the crusts."

Fraser ignored the sight of Ray simultaneously chewing and rolling his eyes. "Thank you kindly, Rosie." He smiled. "And thank Nick for me. It looks delicious." She looked at him expectantly. He picked up a fork and dug in. "Mmmmm. Yummy." That seemed to satisfy her and she moved on to another customer.

Ray spoke around a mouthful of food. "If you could bottle that, you'd make a fortune."

"Salmon and artichokes?" Fraser asked, puzzled.

"Nah, the effect you have on women. Rosie's old enough to be your mother."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said automatically. They had had this conversation before.

"Yeah, yeah," Ray shoveled in more food. "Pass the maple syrup." When nothing happened, he looked up. Fraser was looking at him, eyebrows raised meaningfully. Ray shook his head and sighed. "Fraser, please pass the artificially- flavored, caramel-colored high fructose corn syrup."

Fraser handed over the little metal pitcher and went back to his omelet. Ray poured a copious amount of the golden brown liquid over his pancakes. At that, Fraser's head jerked up and he inhaled deeply. To Ray's surprise, he took the syrup pitcher and poured a small amount on a corner of his own plate.

"I thought you hated that stuff," Ray commented.

Fraser dipped his little finger into the puddle of syrup and licked it. To Ray's utter astonishment, he closed his eyes blissfully and emitted a sound of pure pleasure. Then, he did it again.

"Hey, get a room ..."

"Eat your pancakes," Fraser said, flatly.

Ray gave him a look but did as instructed. Nick's blueberry pancakes were the specialty of the house, but they were especially good tonight. He tucked in with abandon.

"See! That's not corn syrup, Ray," Fraser explained. "That's premium grade, plus plus select."

"What?" Ray asked around a mouthful of pancake, "like extra-virgin virgin?"

Fraser nodded. He took another taste of syrup and rolled it around on his tongue. "Quebecois Dark Reserve ... from red maples - no, no ... ," he took another taste and closed his eyes, "black, definitely black maples ... first tapping, if I'm not mistaken."

"Oh, c'mon, Benny ! I am _not_ falling for that."

Fraser was offended. "I've made it a point to familiarize myself with as many varietals and grades of maple syrup as possible," he protested. "Well, Canadian anyway. I'm not as proficient with the American varieties, though I have some passing familiarity." He took another taste. "Of course, this quality I've only been fortunate enough to taste once, when Inspector Thatcher procured it specially for the Assistant Deputy for North American Trade Relations last year. I'm afraid it's a bit beyond my budget." He looked thoughtful and glanced around the small restaurant, taking in the somewhat careworn decor. "I wonder ..."

"How much?"

"Eh? Oh, commodity prices fluctuate greatly, Ray. I really don't know what the current price would be. Typically, though, a gallon of maple syrup is ten to fifteen times more expensive than a gallon of oil."

"Olive oil?"

"Petroleum, Ray."

Ray gawped. "So, I just ate _how _much?"

Fraser shrugged. "I didn't measure your consumption, Ray."

"Ballpark."

Fraser thought. Perhaps half a cup, converted to partial liters. He gave Ray the figure. "Canadian dollars," he added.

"What's that in real money?"

He calculated the exchange rate automatically and told him.

Ray whistled. "Nick must have won the lottery."

"Unlikely. The Quebecois Dark Reserve is not sold outside the province. The Inspector had to ship it in via the diplomatic pouch." He stiffened abruptly, then said in a low tone, "Ray, you didn't hear that."

It was too late. Ray was grinning from ear to ear. "Get out! The Dragon Lady's a smuggler!?"

"Shhhh!" Fraser looked quickly around the café. "Please, Ray!"

"OK. OK. My lips are sealed." A chuckle escaped him. "But you owe me."

"Thank you." He swallowed and tugged at his collar. "That's not important. What is important is why a tiny Chicago café has even the smallest quantity of Quebecois Dark Reserve at all, much less is dispensing it willy-nilly to unappreciative Americans as 'pancake' syrup."

Ray thought he should be insulted by that remark, then decided it was merely the truth. "Maybe Nick vacationed in Quebec and brought some home with him."

"Perhaps. But considering that the chili is Monday's meatloaf and Tuesday's beans, and factoring in the price he would have had to pay for the Reserve, can you honestly see him sharing it with his customers?"

"I don't know, Benny." Ray took a bite of bacon. "And I don't care." He dipped the bacon into the puddle of syrup and licked it off. "Mmmmm. See, I am _not _unappreciative."

Fraser frowned at him. They finished their meal in silence. When Fraser excused himself to use the restroom, Ray took the opportunity to scrape the remains of the meal on to one plate, then slipped it under the table to Diefenbaker. He felt the wolf's wagging tail lash against his leg. After a few minutes, he spotted Fraser coming out of the mens room.

"Hurry it up, Dief. He's coming back." He got a woof in acknowledgment. But Fraser had detoured to the kitchen before heading back to the table. By the time he slid back into the booth, Ray had eaten his pie and ice cream and surreptitiously retrieved the empty plate from under the table. He looked innocently at the Mountie.

"What's that?" He gestured at the small plastic vial Fraser was holding.

"A sample of the Reserve." Fraser tucked it into the inside breast pocket of his jacket. "Nick has never been in Quebec, nor have any of his family and friends. He procured the syrup from a ...uh ... a vendor." He cleared his throat. "An unlicensed vendor."

"You mean, be bought it off a guy selling maple syrup out of the back of a truck?"

"Yes."

"How much?"

"Five gallons."

"No, how much did he pay for it?"

Fraser told him.

Ray laughed. "Now, I've heard it all. A black market in maple syrup."

"It's not funny, Ray."

"No, I get it. This is serious! Call out the FBI! Or is it the FDA? No wait, this is a job for Martha Stewart!"

"No, Ray," said Fraser, standing. He set his Stetson firmly on his head. "This is a job for the Mounties." He turned smartly on his heel. Ray shouldered into his coat and followed. After several paces, Fraser returned, lifted the tablecloth, and bent down. "Care to join the stakeout, Dief?"


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO**

Ray flipped the defroster on and swiped his arm across the windshield to clear the condensate from his view. As he did, he said, "Hockey! Give me a break!"

"Hear me out, Ray," Fraser continued, ticking points off on his gloved fingers. "Hockey builds strength, endurance, cardiovascular fitness, character ..."

Ray rolled his eyes. "Character, right. It's an excuse for a fistfight!"

"I deplore that element of the game, Ray. But really, it is a small part of the sport. In international and college play, fighting is seldom seen. I grant you it's crept in to the minor leagues and to a lesser extent, the NHL, but it's not encouraged. Recent rule changes and enforcement are having a chilling effect." He paused, "No pun intended."

Ray gave Fraser a disbelieving look, but didn't argue the point. "Be that as it may, basketball is the people's sport. It's cheap. It's accessible. You can play anytime, anywhere. "

"I'm not denigrating basketball. After all, it was invented by —"

"Yeah, yeah. A Canadian. I know."

But Fraser was on a roll. "There's a purity to the athleticism combined with a ... grace ... and dexterity in hockey that you don't see in any other sport. A ... a ... gestalt, if you will. Ice skating, difficult in and of itself, must be mastered, then add to it the stickplay, goal-tending –"

Ray shook his head, vigorously. "Any kid can pick up a basketball and dream that he's Michael Jordan. He doesn't need anything else. With hockey, you need all that equipment, a rink, a Zamboni—"

"Not where I come from, Ray."

"Right, you carved your own sticks from the forest, used your grandmother's bunnocks as pucks ..."

"Bannocks," Fraser corrected automatically. Then nodded, "They made great pucks, as long as one of the dogs didn't get to them."

"With basketball, all you need is a hoop, and a ball. You don't even need a team. One on one." He gave Fraser a sidewise look. "Speaking of which, I am not picking you for my team, ever again. Not after that fiasco last week. Shut out by the Fire Department! I'll never live that down! "

Fraser hung his head.

"I don't understand it. You're a great player one-on-one, but you suck at a real game."

"I'm sorry, Ray," Fraser looked earnestly at his friend. "We never had enough players for a regulation game. Usually only my friend, Innussiq, and me, against a couple of Huskies." He looked down at his hands. "More often than not, it was just me. I admit I haven't mastered the finer points of team play." He rubbed at an eyebrow. "And I confess that I find the garbage-speak distracting."

"You mean, trash talking?"

"Yes."

"You just have to ignore it." The dash clock said 1:15. They had been sitting in the Riv for nearly three hours. Their conversation, like every stakeout conversation of Ray's experience, had meandered all over the map. Station gossip, local politics (of which Fraser was surprisingly well informed,), the best junkyards (of which Ray was very well informed), the program for the upcoming concert at St. Mike's, the best place in the city for tiramisu and the like. Ray rubbed gritty eyes. The nervous energy that had fueled him for the past several days since his mother's emergency admission was starting to dissipate. The noise coming from the back of the Riv wasn't helping his fatigue.

"How do you sleep with that racket?" he muttered, bobbing his head toward the back seat as he shifted to relieve stiff muscles.

"Practice," Fraser replied. He peered through his small spyglass at the dark high-rise building. They were parked in a back alley which gave them the perfect vantage point.

"You should have him checked for sinus problems," Ray complained, then added. "Do wolves have sinuses?" He peered through his own small pair of binoculars, then wiped the lenses on his shirt. He tried again, then rubbed his bleary eyes instead.

"I have. They do. And there's nothing to be done, short of surgery. I can't put him through that for my own convenience." Fraser winced at a particularly loud snort and whuffle. "I really can't," he repeated, as if trying to convince himself. "It's been worse in the city. Something about the quality of the air, I think."

"Quality of the air," Ray snorted. "Right. In Chicago."

Fraser set the spyglass on the dashboard. "I have to use the ... you know," gesturing with his head to the 24 hour gas station/mini-mart down the block. "Do you want anything?"

"Coffee." Ray picked up the binoculars again. "And a donut." The snoring stopped abruptly. Fraser reluctantly pulled the seat forward for Diefenbaker, then shut the door quietly. Ray picked up the abandoned spyglass and peered through it, then set it back on the dash. He smiled sheepishly. Using the device made him feel like a low rent Captain Hook.

He used the binoculars again, stifling a yawn. For the past three nights, they had been watching the apartment of a suspect in a string of robbery/assaults that had taken place in the Cabrini-Green neighborhood. That part of town was undergoing an inexorable gentrification process. Most of it still looked like Fraser's neighborhood, but it was slowly and surely being edged out by young urban professional housing.

One of Ray's snitches had given them a lead to a fence who had some of the stolen property in his possession. The fence wasn't talking, protesting his innocence as a mere put-upon pawnbroker. But Fraser had sniffed and licked, matching a substance on the stolen items to the crime-scene evidence. They'd traced the items, through a dazzling but unlikely series of deductions involving the resinous-like substance, to a wilderness outfitters club on Wacker. A bit of tracking by Dief, and some good, old-fashioned detective work had led them to a member of the club who kept himself fit with daily climbs of the rock wall, first dusting hands and feet with the resin. Paul Maxwell was an unlikely suspect with a respectable day job. Not enough evidence to arrest and charge, or even to question an apparently law-abiding taxpayer with no priors. But enough to justify the time spent in watching the guy, Ray hoped. Any suspicious activity they observed might be able to get them a warrant.

The m.o. was consistent. The burglaries took place late at night, always when the victims, always young single males, were home in bed. The common thread among the victims was the club on Wacker. The thief got in without any sign of a break-in, struck the sleeping occupant on the head to knock them out, then took his time in ransacking the apartment before disappearing without a trace. The frequency of the incidents was increasing, the violence escalating. The latest victim, a young stockbroker, had suffered a skull fracture in addition to losing cash, bonds, and jewelry.

Fraser had a theory that the nocturnal cycle, in addition to offering obvious concealment in darkness, accommodated the suspect's day job. The shared locker room could have given him easy access to the victims' keys.

Ray also had a theory - the guy liked busting heads of helpless sleeping people who could not defend themselves. He hoped they were both right, because they had no other suspects. The night-time security at his apartment building confirmed no ingress or egress in the wee hours by anyone on the nights in question. But the security cameras only surveyed the front and rear entrances to the building and the access doors to roof and basement. The top floors of the building were unconverted empty spaces that were sealed up tight. However, each finished loft apartment had a fire escape that was not visible to security cameras. Hence their unsanctioned stakeout. According to the security tapes, their suspect had gone in, but hadn't come out. Just like the nights of the burglaries. They had been watching his fifth floor (the highest occupied level) fire escape for the past three nights, to no avail.

The car door opened and Ray was face to face with a panting wolf. "Whew, doggie breath, Dief," he said, waving a hand in front of his nose. He instantly looked chagrined and slunk into the back. Ray called over his shoulder, "Nothing personal. I'm sure I'm no daisy." As he said it, he breathed into the palm of his hand, confirming it. "I need a shower," he said, sniffing at his shirt.

"Yes," said Fraser, handing him the coffee and a small paper bag.

"Thanks." Ray blew on the coffee, then yawned wide enough that Fraser heard his jaws creak.

"Ray, if you want to go home, I can –"

"I'm fine."

Fraser stole a glance at him. Ray's weariness was evident in the slump of his shoulders and the circles under his eyes. He doubted his friend had slept properly for several days.

"You're exhausted."

"I'm not leaving you here without a gun or backup."

"I have Diefenbaker," Fraser said, but his protest was immediately undercut by a burst of snoring from the back seat. Dief could fall asleep at the drop of a Stetson.

"Or jurisdiction."

Fraser had no reply to that. "I'm fine," Ray said, in a tone that brooked no argument. He stifled another yawn and changed the subject. "Hey, you'll never guess who I saw the other day."

"Barry Manilow."

"No," Ray said, giving him a strange look.

"Princess Diana."

"Nope."

"Saddam Hussein."

"How could I possibly see Saddam Hussein in downtown Chicago?"

"Well, you said I'd never guess. Was it–?"

Ray cut in before they played Twenty Thousand Questions. "Joey Paducci."

"Oh," Fraser said. "Well, I might have guessedif you had given me a chance." He saw Ray's expression. "Uh ... how is Joey?"

"Great. He's doing great. He's expanding the shop into the vacant space next door."

"That's good."

"Business has really been booming. Apparently, he's the go-to shoe guy for the Canadians in the city. You must have really talked him up."

"Not really. His work speaks for itself."

"He says the Dragon Lady is one of his best customers."

"The Inspector appreciates quality footwear."

"The better to grind you under her heel with," Ray cackled, rubbing his hands together in a fair imitation of the Wicked Witch of the West, "and your little wolf, too," At Fraser's mystified look, he said, "Never mind."

"That's a tad harsh, Ray. Inspector Thatcher expects no more from her subordinates than she does from herself."

"OK. Sorry." Ray dropped that subject. Fraser was loyal to a fault when it came to his superior officer. Even though she had put him on probation at their first meeting and tried to fire him on the second. And consigned him to sentry duty as punishment anytime she got her nose out of joint. Which was often. He shook his head. "Anyway, Joey and his ex are reconciling. Doing it up right. Big Italian wedding they never had the first time around. "

"Ray, that's wonderful."

"Yeah. His son was in the shop. Cute kid. Has his own little bindlestiff."

"Stitch." At Ray's puzzled look, he said, "The shoemaker's tool. It's not _stiff_," he elaborated. Ray blinked at him. "It's called a bindle_stitch_."

"Whatever." He continued, letting the unintentional _double entendre _pass without comment. "I wouldn't be surprised if we were invited to the wedding. Or re-wedding. What _do_ you call it when you remarry your ex-wife?"

"I imagine Joey calls it bliss," he said, drily.

Ray smiled. "Yeah, I think he probably does."

"I've never been to an Italian wedding," Fraser mused. "Actually, other than Inuit and the odd civil ceremony at the Consulate, I've never been —

"The Dragon Lady can _marry_ people?" Ray exclaimed. "Oh, sure! The Consulate is foreign soil, so she's like the Captain of a ship, right?"

"No, Ray. She can't. Weddings are strictly governed by the laws of the host country. But, since I have been assigned, there have been two weddings at the Consulate with an American official, uh, officiating." He chuckled. "In fact, I was drafted as best man at one. The groom's best friend had over-indulged at the bachelor party and ended up on a lakeboat headed to Duluth. With the wedding ring in his pocket. I had to improvise. Napkin ring from the Queen's tea service. Over Turnbull's strenuous objection, I might add."

"Don't talk to me about bachelor parties. What I mostly remember of my own wedding was trying not to throw up on the priest." Ray grimaced. "Boy, was Angie mad! Locked me out of the honeymoon suite for a couple of hours. Still, when we made up ..." He stopped, licking his lips. He felt Fraser's eyes on him. "Well," he shrugged, "you know how it is. The bigger the fight, the better the makeup s-" He cleared his throat, and sat up straighter. "So! What's an Inuit wedding like?"

"Traditionally, the groom gives his bride a new set of clothes."

Ray waited. "That's it?"

"Yes."

"Then, they're married?"

"Yes."

"No church, no bridesmaids, no wedding planners?"

"No."

"Huh." Ray tried to imagine such a no-fuss, no-frills event without success.

Fraser leaned close. "When I was eight, Innussiq convinced me that I had married his little sister, June." He looked rueful. "I had loaned her my mittens."

"You sure you're not?"

"Not entirely, no."

Ray laughed, then sobered. "Uh, Fraser. That shirt I gave you at Christmas?"

"Yes, Ray?"

"I was re-gifting, not proposing."

"Understood." He paused, thoughtfully. "Wedding customs are fascinating, Ray. What may have started out with a practical basis in reality can become ritualized to the point of abstraction." He turned in his seat to face him. "For example, in ancient times, the groom often abducted his bride. He needed a small army of friends to hold off the bride's angry relations which led to the tradition of a best man and groomsmen. Or the bundle of garlic, herbs and grain thought to keep away evil spirits has now become the bouquet of flowers that the bride throws to maidens in waiting." He scratched his chin. "I find wedding ceremonies to be quite compelling. Anthropologically speaking, of course."

"Then, you're gonna love an Italian wedding." Ray had been to more than his share. "You should see some of the anthropods on the Vecchio side." He took a bite of donut. "Food's good too."

Fraser looked thoughtful. "Have you ever attended a Polish wedding, Ray?"

"You kidding? Half my neighborhood was Polish. I don't know who puts on the better feedbag, us or them. Of course, the best are the mixed marriages." Fraser looked a question. "Y'know, Polish bride, Italian groom. Or vice versa." He nodded sagely. "Now,_ that's_ a shindig."

"Ah. Then perhaps you can explain." Fraser turned to him expectantly. "What role does the 'plah swan' play at a Polish wedding?"

"Huh?"

"A plah swan?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. How do you spell it?

"I don't know. Phoenetically, p-l-a-h s-w-a-n."

Ray scratched his head. "Where did you get that one?"

"Yesterday. In the canteen. I overheard two women talking about a Polish wedding they were planning to attend and the 'plah swan' one had to invite." He looked at Ray with the scholarly zeal of a librarian's grandson. "From their conversation, I gathered it was some sort of ritualistic figure required for the ethnic ceremony, offered up as a token sacrifice. Perhaps, similar to a Chinese ghost wedding or the Ukrainian custom of the couple burning an effigy of the matchmaker in symbolic revenge."

"Plah swan. Plah swan," Ray repeated slowly. "Plus swun. Plus one! The date!"

"Next month. I don't know the exact day –"

"No, no, they were talking about their dates. You know, on the invitation?"

Fraser looked blank.

"Oh, right. So, you've never gotten a wedding invitation, right?" At Fraser's nod, he continued. " See, if you're single, the invite is addressed to "Mr. Benton Fraser, plus one" or "Mr. Raymond Vecchio, plus one. Bring a date, fill in the blank. The 'plus one.'"

"Oh, I see." He got an odd expression on his face. "Oh, dear."

"What?"

"Nothing, Ray."

"C'mon, Benny."

Fraser squirmed in his seat. "I don't know if I should tell you this. I mean it _was_ a private conversation. I wasn't trying to eavesdrop, but, as you know, my hearing is particularly acute. " He shifted position, clearly uncomfortable. "On the other hand, you _are_ my friend. Ethically -"

"Just spit it out, Fraser!"

Fraser took a breath and plunged in. "In the canteen yesterday, Sophie and Maria were talking."

"The girls from Human Resources? What did they say?"

"Yes. Well, the _women_ from Human Resources." Ray gestured impatiently. "Well, Sophie's cousin is getting married next month. Both the bride and groom are of Polish extraction and it's to be a big catered affair." He leaned in. "Maria is wearing a darling little black dress and wanted to borrow Sophie's black stilettos. Since Sophie is wearing her red Jimmy Choos with a red dress, Maria knew she wouldn't need the stilettos ..." At Ray's growl, he continued hastily, "That's not important. What is important is that Sophie needs a 'plah-', uh 'plus one.'"

Ray knew where this was going. He sighed. "And Sophie asked you?"

"No."

"She didn't?"

"No, she hasn't asked anyone yet."

"So? Just act surprised when she does. You gonna go? I mean the anthropological implications alone would be worth it." He added. "And Sophie's gorgeous."

"No! I mean, yes, they would. And she is very attractive. That is, what I mean ... she's not going to ask me." At Ray's puzzled expression, he continued. "She's intending to ask you."

"Me?"

"Yes."

"Sophie? I thought she had a boyfriend."

"They broke up."

"And she wants to invite _me_?" Ray frowned speculatively. "Sophie. Jeez. She's never given me the time of day. I never would have guessed she had the hots for me."

Fraser looked uncomfortable.

"What?"

"She doesn't."

"Doesn't what?"

"'Have the hots' for you."

"How can you say that? She must have it bad if she wants to introduce me to the family right off. Wow. I never –"

Fraser said quickly. "She wants to get back with her boyfriend and plans to use her 'plus one' - you - to make him jealous."

"She wants to _use_ me!?"

"Yes," Fraser said. "I'm sorry, Ray, " he added.

To his surprise, Ray grinned broadly. He looked into the rearview mirror and smoothed back his hair. "The kid's still got it!"

"You don't mind?"

"Mind what?"

"Being used like that?"

"Mind! Benny, a beautiful woman wants to use me as a sex object! Mind? It's my every adolescent fantasy come true!"

"Oh."

"I can do the jealousy thing."

"Ray."

"I mean, I'm helping her out, right? Like a Good Samaritan."

"Ray."

"You do that all the time."

"Ray."

"You know what would _really_ make him crazy? If we -"

"Ray!"

"What?"

Have you _seen_ Sophie's boyfriend?"

"Uh, no."

"Picture Arnold Schwarzenegger."

Ray gulped.

"Times two."

Ray stared at him, then picked up the binoculars again. Fraser retrieved his spyglass. They peered straight ahead in silence. After a while, Ray muttered, "Thanks for the heads up."

"Don't mention it."

Ray rubbed at his bleary eyes again. It was no use. He set the binoculars down on his chest and leaned his head back against the seat rest. "I'm just gonna rest my eyes a minute."

"OK, Ray."

Ray closed his eyes and thought of weddings. His own, Maria's, Frannie's. His parents had met at a wedding, he remembered. His pop had talked often and affectionately about spying his future wife across a crowded room, eating cheesecake with a knife and fork. A sure sign of a lady, according to the old man. Of course, that was when he was sober.

A rough voice interrupted his thoughts. "Whaddya know about it? At least, I was married for thirty five years. I didn't get no divorce after a lousy coupla years."

"Shut up, Pop," Ray said, wearily, to the back seat. He didn't bother to open his eyes.

"Don't tell me to shut up! I'm your father! Show a little respect!"

"I don't have to show you nothing. Go away, I'm working here."

"You call this working? You're wasting your time. The Mountie gave you a bum steer, with his licking this and smelling that. Disgusting! I told ya he was looney-tunes."

Ray whirled around, snarling in fury. "Yeah, you told me. You told me to leave him to die in the wilderness too!"

"Sure," his old man said, puzzled at Ray's anger. "That was good advice, too." He pointed a finger at Ray. "I always gave you good advice. But you never listened."

Ray turned fully around, facing front. He put his fingers in his ears. "I'm not listening now, Pop."

"Don't you turn your back on me, ya little snot!"

Ray did his best to ignore the stream of invectives coming from the rear seat. After a while it stopped. He removed the fingers from his ears.

"Raimundo," a woman's voice came from the back seat. There was an oddly muffled quality to the sound.

Ray's head whipped around. "Ma!"

His mother's nose was gushing blood on to her plate of cheesecake, though she was doing her best to staunch it with the bloody napkin she held to her face. His father smirked at him and grabbed his mother by the hair. "I told you not to turn your back to me, you little loser! See what you're making me do?" He pulled his arm back to render another blow.

Ray tried to lunge at his father to block the punch, but it was as if he was trapped in amber. He turned his head with great effort. "Benny! I can't move! Benny! Do something!"

Fraser lowered the spyglass and turned slowly to Ray. "I can't, Ray." His face was pale, ghost-white. "Don't you remember? You shot me in the back." He slumped forward. The back of his shirt was drenched in blood. "Sorry about the upholstery, Ray."

Ray moaned and struggled to free himself from his weird paralysis. His mother screamed as the sound of a slap echoed in the small space. "Stop it, Pop! Stop it!" he cried.

"You can't protect her, Raymond," his father sneered, "you never could. You were always nothing, and you're still nothing."

"Benny, please!"

Fraser spoke calmly through bloodless lips. "You're being juvenile, Ray."

Ray looked down at his struggling body. His feet, clad in beat-up Converses, didn't reach the floor. He caught a glimpse of his panicked face in the rear view mirror. A twelve year old boy with thick, dark hair looked back. Ray screamed in frustration and guilt and shame. "Noooooooo!"

"Ray! Ray! Ray! Ray!" Fraser was shaking his shoulder.

"Wha–!" he said, startled.

"You were dreaming," he said, concerned.

Ray spun around and nearly lunged into the back seat, startling a sleeping Dief into wakefulness. The wolf stared at him, then rose and licked Ray's face. He looked frantically around. Other than Dief, the backseat was empty. He gulped air, trying to calm his racing heart.

"Ray? Are you all right?" He still gripped his arm tightly.

Ray nodded slowly, then drew a shaking hand across his sweaty forehead. "Yeah," he mumbled as Fraser released him, "bad dream."

"Undoubtedly," he said. He cleared his throat. "Um ... do you want to talk about it?" To his relief, Ray shook his head, then picked up the binoculars.

"Understood." Fraser looked through the spyglass again.

There was a long silence. Ray looked at the dash clock 2:10 ... 2:18 ...2:22. His heart gradually slowed to its normal rate.

Fraser broke the silence. "She's going to be all right, Ray."

"Yeah," he said, quietly. If she wasn't, he was powerless to stop it. Just like when he was a kid.

Another silence, then Fraser spoke again. "Ray, I've been meaning to ask." When Ray looked at him, he continued, tentatively, "Would it be all right if I visited your mother in hospital? Just a brief visit. I wouldn't stay long," he added, quickly. "That is, if it's not an intrusion into private family time."

Ray put the binoculars to his eyes and squinted through them, trying to focus in on the correct fire escape. "Benny, I got bad news for you. You_ are_ family," he said. "Which one is it? Five up and two over? Or three?" The stupid dream had rattled him.

"Three," he said, quietly. He was touched by Ray's casual remark.

"Got it." Ray peered through the glasses for a few minutes. The silence stretched as dark thoughts continued to oppress him. He spoke, without thinking. "Your mom. How old were you? When she ... you know ...?"

A pause. "Died?"

"Yeah."

"I had turned six the week before."

"Ah, Jeez." His nephew, Antony, was that age. "Do you remember her?"

"It was a long time ago, Ray," he said, neutrally. But Ray heard the unspoken _I don't want to talk about it_ nonetheless.

"Right. Of course, it was." He was embarrassed at his thoughtless questions. "Forget I asked."

There was an awkward silence filled only with the sound of Dief's snores. Fraser shifted uncomfortably. He never talked about his mother. Not to anyone. That was a wound that had scabbed over long, long ago. _And you know what happens if you pick at a scab, Benton Fraser. _The voice of his grandmother was so clear he almost looked in the backseat to see if her ghost had joined the stakeout. How many times had he heard her say that?

He glanced at Ray. Worry and weariness lined his friend's face. He realized, with a jolt, that he was getting a preview of what Ray would look like as an old man. Fraser wondered if their friendship would last until that was, in fact, the reality. Not likely, he realized with sudden insight, not if it was always a one-way street. He trusted Ray with his life. Why was it so hard to let him in, even a little bit? He took a breath and let it out slowly.

"I'm not sure what I remember," he began. Ray startled at the sound of his voice. He had thought the conversation was over. Fraser soldiered on. "I have a few photographs and I think... that's really what I'm seeing ... when I picture her face." He paused. "But I do have memories that I _know_ are my own. Warm hands. Her smell. I remember her voice ... " He trailed off into silence.

"Really, Benny, you don't have to –"

"No, no. It's OK, Ray." His tone was wistful. "I have a vivid memory of her reading me a bedtime story."

"How did she die?" he said, softly.

"Her heart stopped beating," he said, simply.

Ray shot him a wary glance. "Hey, really, we don't have to talk –"

Fraser caught his expression and hastened to speak. "No, Ray, it's not ... " He tried to explain. "That's what my grandparents told me when_ I _asked. It wasn't till many years later that I realized how ... how inadequate ... an answer that really was." He shrugged. "You didn't know my grandparents. The subject was simply _not_ discussed." He paused. "When I was older, I speculated that it must have been a defect of the heart of some kind, an aneurism perhaps. But I've never really known for sure."

"Your dad never said?"

"My dad never talked to me about my mother." He snorted humorlessly. "In fact, my dad and I never talked. Not really. Not while he was alive." He looked over his shoulder suddenly, then turned back in his seat.

Ray also turned and looked. Dief stared back at him quizzically.

"What about 'never chase a man over a cliff' or 'don't buy a pig in a poke?"

"That isn't talking, Ray. That's pontificating. It isn't the same."

"My dad talked with his hands," he said, " a lot."

"Well, many Italian-Americans gesticul – " Fraser stopped. "Oh. You mean –"

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry, Ray."

"I'm sorry about your mother." Ray adjusted the binoculars. "She hadn't been sick?"

Fraser shook his head. "One night, she put me to bed, brought me a glass of water, and read me _Peter Pan _till I fell asleep." He rubbed an eyebrow with his thumb, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "While I slept, she died. I never saw her again."

"That's rough."

Fraser stared straight ahead. "It was a long time ago." He took a breath. "When I woke the next morning, my father was there." He paused. "I remember he packed a bag for me - some clothes - none of which matched - and some toys - most of which I had outgrown - and took me to my grandparents in Inuvik. He was gone for a little while, but when he came back, I remember he had a beard ..." His voice trailed off. After a few minutes, he said, "He stayed a couple of weeks, I think, before going back to work." He sighed. "And that was the last time I lived with my father."

"Man, that must have been rough." The sympathy in Ray's voice was palpable.

Fraser shrugged. "Like I said, it was a long time ago."

They were silent, each lost in his own thoughts. Fraser thought of the gaunt, bearded wraith of a man that his father had been for most of that time, and the day that he had made an oatmeal and banana breakfast for his lonely, grieving child. It was the only time he had seen his father cry, though silently, tears running down his clean-shaven face as he had clutched his young son so tightly his boy-self could barely breathe. With a flash of insight, Fraser realized he was being unfair to his father. Even now, twenty seven years later, it hurt. Though, it gradually dawned on him, it hurt a little bit less now after telling Ray.

Ray thought about the chaotic, dramatic, emotional roller coaster that had been his childhood, in a crowded house in a crowded neighborhood in a crowded city and all the times he had wished it away. Wished he was an only child. Wished that his father would stop. Stop drinking, stop hitting, stop hurting. Wished for a different life. He stole a glance at the man beside him_. _What was that expression? Be careful what you wish for.

"Ma would love for you to visit, Benny. Like I said, you're family." He grimaced. "God help you."

"Thanks, Ray."

The silence stretched. "How 'bout those Bears?" Ray said finally, to fill the void.

"Grizzly or polar?" he replied. Ray cast him a disbelieving glance, then caught the upward quirk at the corner of his mouth.

"Whatever," Ray said, a smile in his own voice.

"Once," he began, "up north of Great Slave, I was treed by a grizzly. Three days and three nights."

"Treed?"

"A horse chestnut, as I recall." He gestured upwards with his hands. "There was a family of squirrels living in a hollow several feet above my perch. They kept dropping nuts on my head, trying to make me go away." He looked earnestly at his friend. "I'll tell you, Ray, after a while, that wears on a body. To this day, I can't abide – "

Ray, who had settled back for the long and winding road that was one of Fraser's stories, sat straight and pointed up. "Movement!"

They peered through the windshield. The window that opened on to Maxwell's fire escape was open. A dark figure climbed out, then was lost in the shadows. "What's he doing?" Ray asked.

Fraser squinted. "I don't know." He picked up the spyglass again.

They watched, waiting expectantly for the man to climb down to ground level. Ray fingered the gun in his holster, then fidgeted with the binoculars, training them on all the levels of the fire escape down to the ground. There was no one there. He leaned forward. "Hey, where did he go?

Fraser was also looking downward to no avail. He moved the spyglass upwards. "He's scaling the building." He was out the door like a shot. Diefenbaker followed.

Ray grabbed the radio. "Dispatch. Unit 327. Det. Raymond Vecchio, 27th precinct. Officers in need of assistance. Code 3, a 211 in progress at Covent Terrace Apartments. In the back alley. Over."

"Acknowledged, Detective. Unit on its way."

Ray clambered out of the Riv, craning his neck upward. Damn, Fraser was quick. He was already climbing the fire escape, though as stealthily as possible so as not to tip off Maxwell that he had a tail. Ray swore. Apparently, their theory was correct that the suspect was leaving his apartment via his own fire escape. But they had assumed he had _descended_ the building. They had planned to follow, on foot or by car, and catch him in the act of breaking and entering.

But this unexpected maneuver had caught them off guard. Belatedly, Ray remembered that Maxwell was an expert climber, who kept himself in shape by scaling a rock-climbing wall every day. To what end, though? The security cameras confirmed that he didn't descend from the roof by way of the access stairs for the prior burglaries. The adjoining buildings were too far apart to jump across. Ray leaned his head way back. Maxwell had made the roof. Fraser, who was nearly at the top of the fire escape, froze and huddled out of sight against the wall.

Damn! There was nothing for it but to follow his partner. Ray leapt for the dangling ladder to the first floor fire escape cage. He snagged it on his first try and pulled himself up to the landing with a small grunt of effort. He moved quickly, but quietly, up the metal stairs.

Fraser, meanwhile, had made it to the top of the fire escape. Now, that he was closer, he could make out the rope array against the wall. Maxwell had fashioned a fixed line with tandem hitches, a technique common in mountaineering. The hand and foot loops allowed a relatively easy climb to the roof. He looked down. Ray was rapidly moving up the fire escape. Fraser grabbed the rope handholds and found purchase for a foot. He allowed a brief moment of admiration for the handiwork of his quarry before setting his mind and body on the task at hand.

As he reached the roof level, he peered cautiously over the parapet. He was just in time to see Maxwell make a running leap and swing from a rope suspended from the satellite TV tower. He landed on the roof of the adjoining building, graceful as a gazelle. Fraser, as much as he disapproved of the criminal ends to which this athletic activity was being put, was, nevertheless, impressed by the man's nerve and skill.

He looked down. Ray had reached the fifth floor fire escape. He was staring in disbelief at the rope array, then looked up and met Fraser's gaze. He shrugged his shoulders in mute sympathy at Ray's consternation. His partner really did not like heights. He saw Ray reach into his coat, then slowly withdraw his hand. There was no shot to take, even if he had the evidence to use deadly force to apprehend, which he didn't.

Their only advantage, at this point, was that Maxwell was unaware of the pursuit. Waving a gun at him while shouting"Police!" would only give him a chance to escape before they were in a position to apprehend. Fraser carefully pulled himself over the edge of the parapet. The dangling rope swing was still within reach. He peered out from his hiding place in the shadows. Maxwell was on the adjoining roof, crouching over something near the edge of the roof line. His back was turned. Now was his chance.

Fraser grabbed the rope with both hands, took several steps back, then launched himself with a light running step. He swung over the gap between buildings, then dropped, landing on all fours. He scuttled into the lee of a roof vent and held his breath. The rope swung back and forth a few times before coming to a rest. Fraser carefully lifted his head over the vent. Maxwell was still bent down, seemingly unaware that he was not alone. Fraser kept to the shadows, taking advantage of the protuberances of roof vents, air handler stacks and fans as he crept closer.

Below him, Ray had watched his partner disappear out of sight over the lip of the roof. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to say the hell with it, camp out on Maxwell's fire escape and nab the scumbag, red-handed, on his return. But he could hear that voice in his head, the one that spoke with perfect diction and a slight Canadian accent: _He's on his way to bludgeon another victim into unconsciousness, Ray. And, this time, that victim may not wake up a 'tall._

"Aw, nuts, they don't pay me enough to do this," he muttered and put his foot into a rope loop. Ray gritted his teeth and refused to look down. He grabbed a handhold and moved up the side of the building at a steady, though nervous, pace.

Fraser crept closer. Maxwell was wearing a watch cap and some kind of nylon harness with zippered pockets and buckles over a close-fitting black jumpsuit. As he watched, the suspect straightened and reached over his head. He had some kind of device in his hands. Fraser squinted, trying to figure out what he was looking at.

Maxwell had constructed a steel cable array overhead, affixing it to a water tower on the roof. The cable ran along the roof at an angle, continuing out over open space, anchored at the other end somewhere Fraser couldn't see. But, not on this roof. He had seen something like this contraption before. Where? Aha! Last month at the dentist, he had read an article in a travel magazine about Costa Rica. Intrepid tourists would hang from a small hand pulley called a trolley and ride along a cable over the rainforest canopy. The contraption was called a ... zipline. With a sharp intake of breath, he realized that Maxwell was affixing his hand trolley to his own zipline, preparing to ride the cable off this roof. If he launched, he'd be gone in seconds. There was no time to lose.

He stepped out of the shadows. In a voice of authority, he intoned, "Paul Maxwell! Stop what you are doing. Put your hands over your head. You are about to be arrested on six counts of burglary and assault."

The suspected burglar started. He stared in disbelief. "Who the hell –?"

"Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Please step away from the cable." Behind Maxwell, Fraser saw Ray on the roof of Maxwell's apartment building. He was reaching for the rope swing.

"A Mountie?" Maxwell was recovering quickly from his surprise. "What the hell are you doing in Chicago?"

"I first came to Chicago on the trail of the killers of my father, but for reasons that are not relevant at this juncture, I have remained as liaison officer with the Canadian Consulate." Fraser was stalling. He had no jurisdiction to arrest Maxwell and didn't want to lie about it. If he could keep him talking until Ray -

Maxwell moved. He grabbed the handles of the trolley car and hoisted himself up. Instantly, he was flying down the cable line, the trolley making a zhing-zhing whine as it traveled. Fraser moved to block his passage, mindful of the edge of the roof behind him, thinking to grab Maxwell and break his grip on the trolley handles before he reached the edge. He was careful not to place himself directly in his path, as Maxwell's momentum could easily unbalance him and push him off the roof. Ray would kill him if he recklessly endangered himself. Again.

He grabbed Maxwell's leg, stopping his forward motion. He hadn't counted on two things. The first was that the harness around Maxwell's torso tethered him to the trolley and prevented Fraser from yanking him free of the zipline. The second was Maxwell's lightning-quick reactions. Instead of trying to escape Fraser's hold on his leg, the burglar wrapped both legs around Fraser's waist and in an instant had lifted him bodily off his feet. Fraser barely had time to think, _Oh, dear! _before they both were swept along - _zhing-zhing_ - over the roof edge and out over the void.

"I'm gonna drop you, sucka!" Maxwell gloated. "Let's see if Mounties bounce!"

Fraser scrabbled frantically to hold on to something, anything. He managed to get one hand around the harness that Maxwell was wearing. With the other, he grabbed at the trolley, his hand overgripping Maxwell's on the right handle just as Maxwell released his scissor-lock on his waist. Fraser didn't fall, but as his weight was added to the one side of the trolley, it jolted off its track and jammed, slamming both men to a sudden, jarring stop. They dangled together over the drop to the pavement below.

"Let go!" Maxwell shouted into Fraser's face.

"Hang on!" Ray yelled from the roof.

Fraser didn't answer either. He was too busy trying not to fall to his death, as Maxwell with a more solid, two-handed grip on the stuck trolley and the security of the tethered harness, was actively trying to dislodge him. He had landed one head-butt so far, and was kicking viciously at Fraser. Fraser tried to avoid the blows, but he couldn't use either hand. His grip on the trolley handle was the most precarious. He wormed his other hand into the strapping of the harness, seeking a better grip around the buckle that fastened at Maxwell's chest.

Ray was frantic. He had reached the edge of the roof just as Fraser had been swept off it, too late to grab them. Now, Fraser and Maxwell were dangling way out of his reach. He looked around, desperately searching for something - anything – to help his friend. "Hang on, Benny!" he called again. The two men were grappling, locked together, twisting violently on the cable. He drew his gun. But Ray couldn't shoot. He might hit Fraser.

Maxwell let go of the left handle of the trolley and pried at Fraser's fingers, where he overgripped the burglar's right hand. He bent the middle finger back until Fraser cried out and let go. He grabbed the cable. If he hadn't been wearing a leather glove, the cold steel wire would have cut into his hand. Maxwell grinned. He reached into a pocket of the harness. Fraser saw him take aim at the hand gripping the cable and swing a blackjack in an upward arc. Fraser knew he was going to lose his hold on the cable. He clutched at the harness with his other hand, desperately trying to secure his grip before the blow landed.

The harness came unbuckled in Fraser's hand. He had accidentally triggered a quick-release mechanism. Maxwell, feeling himself slip out of the harness, instinctively grabbed at it with both hands, letting go of the trolley and dropping the blackjack. His arms slipped through the harness, but, at the last minute, he snagged the strap with one hand. The other end of it ended in the buckle which was gripped tightly in Fraser's left hand, as Fraser himself dangled from his grip on the cable with his right.

Maxwell kicked frantically, trying without success to get a better grip on the harness. But, the strap was slipping through his fingers. His terrified eyes locked with Fraser's.

"Help me!" he pleaded, then screamed as his hand slipped off.

Fraser clamped a hand around Maxwell's wrist and hung on. Pain flared in his back, shoulders and arms as he strained to support his own and Maxwell's weight.

"Don't let go!" Maxwell cried. His legs kicked at empty air as he instinctively fought for purchase for his feet.

"Stop ... moving!" Fraser choked. Blessedly, Maxwell froze.

On the rooftop, Ray was aghast at the sight of the two men dangling over the precipice. His frantic search had revealed nothing to reach them - no rope, no ladder, nothing!

He called to his friend. "Benny! Ya gotta let him go! Then, grab the cable with both hands! You can pull yourself back over!"

"No!" Maxwell screamed and starting kicking again.

"Benny! Save yourself. Let him go or you're both going down!"

"I ... can't!" Fraser gasped.

"Do it, Benny! Now!"

"Please!" Maxwell begged, his panicked eyes meeting Fraser's. "Please!"

Ray was dangerously close to the edge of the roof himself. Face white and strained, he was frantic. There was only one solution. He drew his gun. If Maxwell was dead, surely Benny would drop the body? Then he could grab the cable with both hands and inch his way back into Ray's reach. He took a bead on Maxwell's flailing torso and braced the gun in both hands. So long as Fraser lived, Ray didn't care if he never forgave him. He tightened his grip on the trigger and held his breath. Then, he let it out and lowered the gun. He couldn't risk it. If he only wounded him and the man thrashed about ... even if he shot the man dead, that might cause Benny to fall, too.

" C'mon, Benny!" he yelled. "This is when you come up with the crazy-impossible solution that nobody else would ever think of. Now! C'mon!"

Fraser's face turned his way. Fear, pain and effort twisted his features. Then, their eyes met and Ray read the mute apology in their depths. There was no Hail Mary pass, no magical scheme, no Inuit remedy that was going to save the day. Ray understood completely. Fraser was saying goodbye.

He ran a hand through his hair, the desperation and helplessness he felt threatening to overwhelm him. It was a thousand times worse than his nightmare in the car. He ducked his head. He couldn't think if he was looking at Fraser. He struggled to control his emotions. He pounded his forehead with a fist. "Think, Vecchio! Think!" He needed rope, but the rope swing was too far away and would take too long to untie. Fraser had moments left. Ray took a deep breath in the manner that Fraser did to calm racing thoughts and looked over the edge of the roof, at the pavement below, at the other buildings in the vicinity, anywhere but at the sight of his best friend preparing to die. Wait a minute! The swing ...!

His eyes widened. He looked down and to the left. Then, his eyes followed the length of the cable. It was crazy-impossible, but it was the only chance.

"Benny! Listen to me carefully! We got one shot at this." Fraser locked eyes with him. His mouth was open and he was breathing in shallow straining gasps. He was beyond the ability to speak, wracked with pain, and dripping with sweat. He jerked his head in one short nod.

"OK. You hang on as tight as you can, buddy! I'm gonna blow the cable at this end. That'll swing you over that way." Ray pointed. "Towards that building with the white roof down there! See it?" Fraser twisted to look over his shoulder to where Ray pointed. Again, he managed one curt nod. "You make like Tarzan, right? When you get over that rooftop, you let go! You drop there! The fall is still a doozy but it'll be better than this one. Understand?"

Fraser tightened his grip on both the cable and Maxwell. He nodded again then dropped his head. Maxwell was staring at him, eyes bulging. Fraser wasn't sure if the terrified man comprehended Ray's plan, but he had no breath to explain it to him. At least, he had stopped struggling.

"Ready?!" Ray said, more for his own benefit than anyone else's. He pointed his gun at the cable where it ratcheted into the hoist. He took a breath, held it and pulled the trigger.

SNAP! The cable split. Ray raised an arm to shield himself as the cable whipped past him, then watched in horrid fascination, as Fraser, still gripping the cable in one hand and Maxwell in the other, swung away. Ray ran back to the edge of the roof. They were really moving, the cable seeming to lengthen as it straightened then curved upward in the arc of its trajectory. To his delight, Fraser and Maxwell swung over the top of the white roof, just like Tarzan. Their momentum carried them rapidly toward an adjoining high rise. To his horror, he realized that Fraser could very easily end up doing a George of the Jungle instead, and smash into the tall brick building.

To his relief, the cable reached its maximum length before they hit the brick wall. It started swinging back. "LET GO!" Ray yelled. He cupped his hands around his mouth and screamed, "LET GO NOW!"

Fraser and Maxwell dropped. They landed in a heap, alarmingly close to the edge of the white roof. Ray held his breath. There was no movement. Ray cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted "BENNY? ANSWER ME!" No response.

An otherworldly howl echoed eerily between the buildings, raising the hairs on the back of Ray's neck. Dief's distress shook Ray out of his paralysis. He retraced his route back down to the ground as fast as his wobbly knees allowed. The apartment dwellers, awakened by the commotion, poked their heads out of windows. Ray shouted, "Police! Stay in your homes!" Sirens sounded, getting closer with each minute.

By the time he reached the ground, two uniforms were there. He quickly identified himself and instructed the older, heavyset officer to call an ambulance and wait for its arrival. He felt a bump against his leg. He bent and told the anxious wolf, "He fell, Dief. I don't know if he's OK, yet. Stay here." He whimpered, but sat back on his haunches. With the younger cop, name of Trainer, in tow, Ray trotted to the white-roofed warehouse, giving him a short synopsis en route. As the young officer's eyes widened, Ray let out a humorless laugh. He knew how ridiculous he sounded.

They found an access ladder on the side of the warehouse. Ray went first. He counted six stories before they made the roof. By his estimate, the fall from the cable was thirty feet, give or take. Nothing to sneeze at, but better than the alternative. He scrambled on to the white painted roof, Trainer on his heels. He dashed to the edge.

"Benny! Benny!" He skidded to a halt at the heap of unmoving bodies. Officer Trainer shone his flashlight. Ray noted with some small satisfaction that Fraser was sprawled on top of Maxwell. At least the asshole had been good for something. He felt with shaking hand for a pulse at Fraser's neck. He let out the breath he had been holding as he was rewarded with a slow and steady bump against his fingers. He and Trainer carefully turned Fraser over.

"Bring that light closer."

Fraser's eyes were closed, face slack, but unmarked. Ray unzipped his jacket, and followed the light beam down his torso. His heart stuttered when he saw the dark stain spread across the front of the flannel shirt. Buttons popped off as Ray ripped the shirt open, searching for the wound. The white T-shirt underneath was stained brown, not red. Ray leaned in for a closer look, then caught the smell of maple syrup. Trainer gave him a strange look as Ray barked a laugh. A quick survey of the unconscious man revealed all four limbs intact, no evident fractures, no external bleeding.

He tapped the side of Fraser's face, gently, but repeatedly. "Come on, Benny. Talk to me, buddy." He repeated it until Fraser's eyelids fluttered. He moaned softly. "C'mon, Benny. Look at me," he implored.

Fraser blinked. It took him a minute, but he managed to croak, "R- ray?"

"Yeah," He smiled weakly. "Me, Ray. You, Tarzan."

Fraser emitted a noise, then groaned.

"Does it hurt?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

He grimaced. "Everywhere." He took a couple of painful breaths, then seemed to take in his surroundings. "Maxwell?"

"Underneath you."

"Oh." He struggled to rise, unsuccessfully.

"Hey,_ you_ don't move," Ray said, shaking a finger in his face. Fraser weakly subsided. Ray and Trainer lifted him in a four-handed carry and moved him to a sitting position against a roof vent. After they set him down, Ray pointed at Maxwell. "Check him out." The young officer rose to comply. "Be careful, Trainer. He's the bad guy."

He knelt beside Fraser. "How you doing?"

Fraser was holding himself as still as possible. Everything hurt, even, it seemed, his hair. "I'm ... alive," he said. "Thanks ... to you."

Ray ducked his head. "Yeah, well." He cleared his throat. "It was Maxwell that broke your fall."

"Is he –?"

"He's alive," Trainer piped up. "I think he might have a broken leg." he said. "Maybe, two."

The sound of an ambulance siren drifted up to them. "Trainer, see if you can find the roof access and guide the EMTs up here."

"Yes, sir," he said, turning smartly.

Ray called to him. "And bring the wol – er, dog. Tell him Fraser's OK."

"Yes, sir," Trainer said, uncertainly. Then, he went.

Fraser leaned his head back against the vent and closed his eyes. "I couldn't let him go, Ray." He grimaced. "Then, I nearly couldn't let go a 'tall. My hand just wouldn't open. Then, I heard you shout and I thought, 'Ray will kill me if I don't let go now.'" He opened his eyes. "That did it." He turned his face away. "I'm sorry. Don't know why I couldn't ... can't ..." He closed his eyes, wearily. "Sorry."

"S'okay," Ray said, patting his shoulder, then stopped at the wince. "I couldn't shoot, Benny." His own voice grew husky. "I couldn't risk ... Not again."

"Understood."

Ray sat down heavily beside him and leaned his own head back against the vent. "You're going to the hospital. No argument."

"Yes, Ray," he said, meekly.

"Ma can visit_ you."_

"Yes, Ray."

Ray closed his eyes. He was instantly asleep, only waking when Diefenbaker yipped excitedly. Fraser opened his eyes. Smiling gently, he said, "I'm OK, boy." Dief sniffed him, then began licking his shirt with enthusiasm. Fraser grunted, but didn't protest. Ray smiled. Ol' Dief and his sweet tooth. He rested his head on his knees until Fraser was strapped into the stretcher and wheeled away. Ray hauled himself wearily to his feet and with Diefenbaker, followed the stretcher to the elevator.


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE **

Ben stuck out his tongue. The snowflake that drifted on to it tasted like gingerbread. Interesting. The one before that had a bright lemony flavor. And the one before that, dark chocolate. As the snow drifted around him, he felt content. He could sit here tasting snowflakes all day. Though barefoot and clad in his favorite red longjohns, he was warm and dry. That was curious. But, it was too much of a bother to try to figure it out. He was happy to sit in the snow and drift. He smiled at the pun, then stuck out his tongue and tasted coconut.

Diefenbaker barked in the distance. Ben looked up. The wolf was cavorting in the snow, ostensibly chasing a white snow hare. Dief had no intention of catching the animal. He was just having fun, enjoying a beautiful day in the Yukon. Ben squinted at the bright sun glinting off the snow crust. Bright sun in the middle of a snowstorm was another point that mildly piqued his curiosity, but not enough to delve further into the anomaly.

Ben frowned as a sudden shadow loomed over him, blocking out the sun. Then, he caught a whiff of a tantalizingly familiar scent. He sniffed appreciatively, trying to identify it, remembering that it was a smell he liked. What was it? As his mind suddenly made the connection, his eyes flew open. A face loomed over him, extremely close. Ben yelped, jolting fully awake. His overtaxed body screamed in protest as he bolted upright and he groaned as he fell back against the pillows, heart racing like a runaway train.

Inspector Margaret Thatcher squealed as she jerked back from the bed. She tripped over her own feet and bumped into a table. Water sloshed out of a pitcher. She took a deep breath, trying to still her racing heart.

"Don't _do_ that, Fraser!" she said, sharply. She tugged at her jacket, and tossed hair out of her eyes, assuming a dignified air that she did not, at that moment, actually possess.

"Sorry, sir." Fraser managed. He was struggling to regain his composure, slow his heart rate, and calm his protesting muscles, while figuring out what the Inspector was doing in his apartment. He sat up slowly. As he took in his surroundings, his confusion cleared. He was in hospital. The medications that his doctors and Ray had insisted he take were clouding his mind, though he had to admit that he had slept well and soundly as a result.

Now that he was awake, and so abruptly awakened, he felt the full measure of the abuse his body had taken last night. He had been lucky. The battery of tests he had been subjected to in the emergency room had confirmed no concussion, fractures, or internal bleeding. "Just soft tissue injuries," the doctors were pleased to report. Fraser's soft tissues, however, were far from pleased. He drew himself to seated attention in the presence of his superior officer, with difficulty.

Thatcher immediately regretted her sharp rebuke. She had a tendency to react aggressively when surprised, and Fraser had surprised her. He had looked dead to the world, pale and so still she had bent over him to see if he was actually breathing. She was sorry now that she had disturbed his rest, but didn't know how to say so. Instead, she fell back on training.

"At ease, Constable," she said, stiffly. There was no visible change in Fraser's posture in the bed. She frowned. "I said, 'at ease'" He stared blankly at her, then looked about him in confusion. Then, back up at her, clearly at a loss as to how to comply. She came forward, searching impatiently in the tangle of sheets and blanket for the hospital bed's control device. Fraser's obvious unease at her rooting around in the bedclothes irritated her further. She was only trying to help, for pity's sake! Finally, she found the device and jabbed a button.

The foot of the mattress rose up. Fraser, unbalanced by the movement, fell back flat. Thatcher muttered to herself as she fiddled with the controls. Fraser bore the contortions of his body stoically as the mechanized bed was put through every position in its repertoire. Finally, Thatcher stabbed the button which raised the bed to a sitting position. "There!" she announced. She looked up, triumphant, then frowned. If anything, he looked paler and more strained than when she had entered the room. Belatedly, she realized what her fumbling with the controls had put him through. She set the control device down on the night stand. "There you go," she said, lamely.

"Thank you, sir," he said, breathlessly. He leaned back, smoothing the thin blanket over his lap as he did. He tried to conceal the relief he felt at the support the raised mattress provided. He took a deep breath and regarded her fully for the first time. The Inspector looked cool and crisp in a tailored pantsuit in a rich, cranberry shade. The tiniest bit of lace at the collar of her silk blouse softened the ensemble. Red suits her, he noted, while surreptitiously taking stock of his own dishevelment: out of uniform, clad_ only_ in a faded blue hospital gown, hair tousled, evil taste in his mouth, very full bladder.

"How are you, Constable?" Thatcher inquired, formally, posture straight, hands behind her back.

"Fine, sir," he replied.

"Good, good," she said, heartily. A pause. "And when will you be discharged?"

He hesitated. "Is it still Friday, sir?"

"Yes." She added, helpfully, "1600 hours.

Fraser nodded. He'd arrived at the ER twelve hours ago. After all the tests were concluded, he had been admitted. So, he'd slept for eight hours. "Soon, sir. Ray - Detective Vecchio - will pick me up after his shift ends."

"Are you sure, Fraser?"

"Yes, sir. Unless something detains him -"

"No, I mean ... Are you sure you will be released already? You look quite ... done in."

"I'm fine, sir." He winced at a cramp. "Soft tissue damage only. Nothing broken." In fact, the doctors had wanted to keep him longer, but Fraser had refused. These types of injuries required time to heal, not skilled nursing care. He didn't need to take up bed space that a more needy patient could occupy. Besides, he had spent far too much time - months - in hospital last year, and had no desire to add to that tally. "I'll be back to work tomorrow." He'd be sore for awhile, but he'd be just as sore in his apartment as he would be at the Consulate.

"Yes, well. Satisfactory." An awkward pause ensued as she searched for a topic to replace the lecture on the American healthcare system that she had intended to deliver. She'd save that for another day. He really did look ... done in. "Lieutenant Welsh told Turnbull that you were injured while pursuing a suspect."

"Yes, sir."

Thatcher had met Welsh on several occasions now. He struck her as a gruff, but competent, officer. A man of few words, he had assured Turnbull on the telephone that Fraser's injuries were not life-threatening. There were no other details provided. She had missed the call as she had a breakfast meeting at the Warwick, followed by a luncheon conference that had gone overlong. When Turnbull had been able to reach her, she was just a few blocks from the hospital. She had thought it her duty to check on her subordinate and remind him that the United States did not have universal healthcare nor government cost-controlled medicine. She had half expected that Fraser would have been released by then, and was surprised to be directed to an inpatient room.

"What happened, Constable?" she prompted.

"I fell, sir," Fraser replied, then added hastily. "But the suspect was apprehended by Detective Vecchio." He shifted to a more comfortable position. The too-large hospital gown chose that moment to slip off one shoulder. He shrugged it painfully back in place. It promptly slid off the other shoulder.

Thatcher drew a sharp breath.

"Sir?"

"Take off that gown."

"Take off - ?"

"That's an order, Constable."

Fraser hesitated, then tried to undo the ties at the back of his neck, but simply couldn't lift his arms high enough to do so. When she realized his difficulty, she moved the night stand out of her way and did it for him. The gown dropped to his waist. He resisted the nearly overwhelming urge to clutch it to his chest and sat quietly, hands on his lap. He could feel his face turning as crimson as her suit. He willed himself to sit still, at attention, as if he was undergoing dress inspection. Or, in this case, undress inspection. He suppressed an uncharacteristic urge to laugh out loud, which he attributed to the drugs he had taken. Plus, he knew it would hurt like the dickens.

"Dear God!" She stared at his back. It was a solid mass of black bruises. She reached out a hand to touch him, then snatched it back before making contact. As she circled him for a full inspection, she saw that the bruising extended around his torso to chest and abdomen, which were mottled in every shade of black and blue. She backed up, her hand at her mouth, completely unaware of his discomfiture.

She narrowed her eyes. " How exactly did you fall, Constable?"

Fraser looked up at her earnestly. "Sir, may I state for the record that Detective Vecchio had no choice but to shoot that cable. Without his quick thinking and decisive action, I would have fallen another six stories." She gaped at him. "Instead of just the three," he added, helpfully.

It was all downhill from there. As Fraser was finishing the recitation of the events of last night, Ray bounded into the room. "OK. Boxers or briefs? I got you a pack of each -" he began, then stopped short as he took in the scene. Fraser, naked to the waist, sat stiffly in the bed, face red, body black and blue, while the Dragon Lady breathed fire, obviously in the middle of dressing down her subordinate. Their heads swivelled in unison to stare at Ray.

"Hey, sorry for the interruption." He spoke to the patient in the bed. "Here, Fraser! Catch." He tossed the packages of underwear at his friend, intending to beat a hasty retreat. The packages struck Fraser full in the face and fell to the floor. Ray was horrified. "Sorry! Sorry!" He rushed to pick them up, and set them on the night stand. When he straightened, Thatcher rounded on him.

"He can't lift his arms!" she said, accusingly.

"You should see the other guy," Ray joked.

"This isn't funny, Detective!" she snarled at him. "He fell off a high rise building! He could have been killed!"

"Whoa!" Ray threw his hands up in a defensive posture. "This is not _my_ fault!"

Fraser spoke at the same time. "It was only three stor –"

"Shut up, Fraser!" Ray and Thatcher said at the same time. Then, they faced each other, eyes flashing. fists clenched.

Thatcher said coldly, "Constable Fraser is a deputy liaison officer with a diplomatic posting. It is an administrative position. A 'desk job,' to put it simply. The worst injury he should get is a paper cut! Look at him!" They both stared at Fraser, who managed to turn a deeper shade of red. "His duties do _not _include pursuing dangerous criminals across the Chicago skyline doing your job for you, Detective."

"Sir - " Fraser began, but Ray cut him off.

"I_ do _my job, lady!" He spat the words at her. "Try doing yours, for a change!"

"Ray - " Fraser interjected, but Thatcher cut him off.

"You don't know the first thing about my job! Or his!" She crossed her arms over her chest and tossed her head. "You Americans! Barging in –"

But Ray was angry now. "He's _your_ deputy, right? But _you_ have him standing on the sidewalk eight hours straight while kids shoot spitballs at him and dogs size him up like a big red fire hydrant! Writing out invitations! Driving you around! You're either trying to make him quit or -"

"Ray -" Fraser tried again.

Now, Thatcher was hot. This was her first supervisory posting and she took it very seriously. She also did not take kindly to criticism. Especially not from a male chauvinist American outside her chain of command. As a female officer with ambition in a male-dominated field, she had learned from hard experience that the only way to handle someone like Vecchio was to take and keep the offensive. "You're out of line, Detective! Don't tell me how to handle my subordinates!"

"Somebody should!" Ray shouted. "He's a cop! The best damn cop – ."

A deep voice boomed from the door. "Detective Vecchio! Stand down!"

Three heads swivelled toward Lieutenant Harding Welsh. "I could hear you down the hall," he said in a low voice that nonetheless commanded attention. His stern gaze included Thatcher. "Both of you. Need I remind you that this is a hospital?"

Ray and Thatcher glared at each other, but subsided.

"Detective Vecchio."

"Sir!"

"Inspector Thatcher, while not your superior officer, is, nevertheless, a ranking official of a sovereign nation, one with which we are not ... uh... currently ... at war. As such, she deserves the respect commensurate with her office. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir."

Welsh raised expectant eyebrows at him.

Ray sighed and faced Thatcher. "I apologize," he said, stiffly.

She nodded curtly. "I also apologize, Detective."

Ray was shocked. He exchanged a quick glance with Fraser, who shook his head, slightly, in warning.

Thatcher turned smartly and spoke crisply to Welsh. "I apologize for criticizing your subordinate, Lieutenant." At Welsh's nod, she continued, "I should have spoken directly to you, as Detective Vecchio's superior officer, about my complaints."

"Complaints?" Welsh was taken aback. "Vecchio and Fraser solved a particularly perplexing case and apprehended the suspect. It's a good bust." He spoke to Fraser. "Maxwell was wearing a ring that belonged to the first victim. That, combined with the rock-climbing apparatus, gave us enough for a search warrant of his apartment. What we found ... well, he's going away for a long time." He paused. "Once he gets out of traction." He smiled and spoke in a conciliatory tone to the Inspector. "As a matter of fact, I think you'll be pleased at –"

But Thatcher was not placated. "Pleased! Look at him!"

All eyes turned on Fraser. He couldn't help it. He grabbed the sheet and pulled it up to his neck.

Welsh took in his physical state and whistled. "I bet that smarts. Eh, Constable?"

"A bit, sir."

Welsh nodded. "I have some news that may lessen the pain –"

Thatcher threw up her hands in exasperation. "You're missing my point, Lieutenant. Fraser is_ my_ officer. Not yours. He does not belong at your American precinct, arresting American criminals, falling off American buildings and incurring American hospital bills."

"But, sir, I don't arrest –"

Thatcher ignored Fraser and locked eyes with Welsh. "Furthermore, you're taking advantage of him." At his surprised look, she continued. "You get a highly trained professional's services added to your force without incurring a penny to your budget. Training, I might add, that was paid for by the taxpayers of Canada."

"Sir, may I –" Fraser interrupted.

Welsh cut him off this time. "Now, wait a minute, Inspector. I understood that Constable Fraser is on his own time when he works with Vecchio."

"That's not the point," she said, her tone defensive.

Welsh was on a roll now. "I don't know about Canada, but here in the United States, what a man does on his own time is his own business."

"Well, yes," she conceded, then added. "So long as it does not reflect badly on the Service."

"Reflect badly?" he looked askance at her. "Hardly." He gestured at the man in the bed. "He's a credit to the force. Any force." He gave her a piercing look. "A fact I'm not sure you appreciate, Inspector."

Thatcher refused to acknowledge his statement. Welsh did not have access to Fraser's personnel file, as she did. The man was unorthodox nearly to the point oflunacy. His loyalty to the Service had been called into question over the Yukon dam project, along with his deceased father's integrity. And his murky role in that Metcalf woman's escape still had not been explained to Thatcher's satisfaction. She was not going to debate the Constable's checkered record with Welsh, nor that certain of her superiors had made it clear that Fraser's exit from the force while on her watch would be looked upon with favor. Her own sense of fair play, and Fraser's unwillingness to make it easy for her, had backed her off of instantly terminating him. That, and her personal observations of the man seemed at odds with the official line. She shook her head, dispelling these thoughts as irrelevant to the issue here. She had learned she could be as stubborn as any man. "He is _my_ Deputy Liaison Officer and, as such, his duties to the Consulate and_ his_ country must come first."

"I cannot imagine that the Constable has been neglecting his official duties, Inspector."

"No, not up to this point. But look at him!" She grabbed Fraser's wrist and extended his arm. At his gasp of pain, she dropped it. "He can't lift his arms. Does he look like he'll be fit for duty tomorrow?"

Welsh didn't answer.

Ray spoke up. "A desk job, you said. Strictly administrative."

"Ray," Fraser said, in a strained voice. "I need you to –"

"Stay out of this, Detective," Welsh said. He looked troubled. "You may have a point, Inspector."

"But, sir," Ray argued, "we use civilian volunteers all the time. What? Canadians aren't allowed to volunteer now?"

"I said stay out of this, Detective."

Ray threw up his hands and backed away from his boss and Fraser's boss, who were eyeing each other like Sumo wrestlers in the ring. He felt a tug on his sleeve. He looked down into pleading blue eyes.

"Ray, I need you to –" he started, in a low tone.

"I can barely hear you, Benny," Ray said, bending closer.

Just then, there was a commotion outside the room. Several voices were talking all at once. Then, a blonde woman strode through the door. She was impeccably dressed in a smart business suit with a brightly colored scarf at her throat. She had a brisk, breathless air about her.

"Lieutenant Welsh?"

Welsh drew himself up. "That's me. You're Ms. Golightly?"

She stuck out a hand. "Holly, please. I believe my office arranged everything with your assistant."

"Yes, yes," Welsh said, nonplused, shaking her hand. "I'm sorry, I got a little distracted here." He turned. "May I introduce Inspector Margaret Thatcher of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, currently attached to the Canadian Consulate here in Chicago."

"Wonderful!" Holly said, grabbing Thatcher's hand. "We were looking for you. We called the Consulate and Officer Turnbull - what an interesting young man - didn't know when you'd return. This is just perfect!"

She returned the handshake. "Perfect for what?"

But Holly had moved on. "And this is Constable Fraser," she said, approaching the bed. She looked him up and down, "Oh, my. This will not do. This simply will not do!"

Fraser looked dubious. "Ray?" he called, uncertainly.

Holly took in Ray, standing on the other side of the bed. "You must be Detective Vecchio."

"Yeah," he said, "I must."

She went over him with a critical eye. From his topcoat, charcoal gray suit, black cashmere sweater, crisp white shirt, and discreetly patterned tie down to his highly polished wingtips. "Very nice," she murmured, approvingly. "Armani?"

He brightened. "Yes, as a matter of fact."

She gestured helplessly at Fraser. "Can you do something with him?"

"I've been trying," he said, rolling his eyes, "but he thinks LL Bean is a designer label."

She laughed and Ray joined in. There was more noise from the hall and someone called her name.

"I'm coming." She laid a hand on Ray's arm, and smiled up at him. "Be a dear and see what you can do with him before the photographer gets here." She strode out of the room.

Ray and Thatcher looked at Welsh who scratched his forehead. "That's what I came here to tell Vecchio and Fraser." He looked at her. "The last victim, the one with the skull fracture. Turns out, he's the Mayor's godchild. He's coming here to personally thank the two officers who got the perp."

She looked stunned. "The Mayor is coming here?

"Any minute now," Welsh said. "It's more than a photo op. " He smiled at Vecchio. "There's a commendation coming your way, Detective." He nodded at Fraser. "Yours too, Constable."

"That's not necessary, Lieutenant. Really," Fraser said, nervously. "it's really not."

Thatcher touched her hair and tugged at her jacket. "Nonsense, Constable. If the Mayor of Chicago wants to show his appreciation, the least we can do is accept it graciously." She leaned toward Welsh. "Perhaps, we can discuss this subject another time, Lieutenant." She grabbed her purse. "Excuse me a moment. I'm going to freshen up."

"Sir!" Fraser called, as she darted into his bathroom and closed the door. He sighed in frustration.

Ray grinned at Welsh. "That seems to put a different spin on things, doesn't it, sir?"

His boss grunted. He fiddled with his necktie. "Is my tie straight?"

Ray nodded. "How 'bout mine?"

Welsh nodded. "Yeah." He fingered Ray's sweater. "Is that real cashmere?"

"Uh-huh," he said. He rocked back and forth on his heels, grinning like a schoolboy.

"Ray!" Fraser pleaded. "Ray, I need your help."

"Oh, right!" He'd forgotten all about the patient for a moment. He eyed him, critically. "I'm on it, buddy!" He shrugged out of the topcoat and suit jacket and handed both to Welsh. "Thanks, sir." He skinned out of the sweater, tossed it on the bed, put the jacket back on and adjusted his tie. He posed for Welsh, who gave him a thumbs up. Then, he picked up the sweater and advanced on Fraser.

"You just need to look good from the waist up, Benny. Keep that blanket on your lap, for God's sake," he urged. "No matter what."

"Ray -" Before he could get another word out, Ray had the sweater on his head. "Ray!" he said, his voice muffled by the garment.

But Ray wasn't listening. As he pulled the sweater over Fraser's head, he kept up the conversation over his shoulder with Welsh. "Hizzoner, himself. Wow! Wait till Ma hears about this. She loves him!" He gathered one sleeve of the sweater and slid it over Fraser hand.

"Ray, I really can't do this –"

Ray fussed with the sleeves. "Aw, don't be shy. All you have to do is smile and shake his hand. He'll do the rest."

Welsh moved closer. "It'll all be over in a minute, Constable. These things are very quick."

"But, sir -"

"This'll be good for you, Benny. Besides, the Drag - " he glanced at Welsh, "uh, the Inspector, is already on board with it." Ray had Fraser's forearms in the sleeves. "Let me do the heavy lifting, Benny," he said, as he gently pulled the garment up and over the bruised shoulders and back, tugging it into place. He was careful, but Fraser emitted a few grunts all the same. The activity left him breathless and hurting. Ray smoothed the soft fabric over his shoulders and back, and adjusted the sleeves. He took a step back, and assessed him with a critical eye. Well, he was too pale, which the dark color emphasized, but the fit was good. Ray pulled a comb out of his pocket and handed it to him. When he saw Fraser struggle to lift it high enough, Ray took it from him and combed the dark hair into place.

He examined Fraser straight on. "There. You look good, man." He gathered up the crumpled hospital gown. He noticed the packages of underwear lying on the night stand.

"Oops, gotta get rid of these!" He rolled them up in the gown and stashed them into a drawer. He looked around. Everything seemed in order.

"Ray," Fraser pleaded.

This time, Ray heard the note of urgency. He leaned closer. "Yeah, Benny?"

Several things happened at once. Thatcher emerged from the bathroom, hair perfect, lipstick freshened, clothes straightened; Holly strode back into the room, followed by two serious-looking men in dark suits, another man and two women, one of whom held a camera and bag, and, as if bringing up a parade, the Mayor of Chicago. He greeted Welsh with a hearty handshake. The Lieutenant gestured for Ray to join him in the center of the room.

"Ray!" Fraser called, but his friend was gone. Welsh pulled the detective into the melee, leaned in and spoke into his ear. Ray nodded gravely, then was swallowed up in the entourage.

The action was centered in the middle of the room. Alone and overlooked in the bed, Fraser was wringing his hands, trying, without success, to get Ray's attention. There was a flurry of introductions, handshakes, and back-slapping. Then the photographer was snapping pictures, the flash dazzlingly bright in the small room: the Mayor with Welsh, the Mayor with Ray, the Mayor with Ray and Welsh, the Mayor with the Inspector, the Mayor with Ray, Welsh and the Inspector, and so on. Just as they were finishing, Francesca Vecchio pushed a wheelchair containing a beaming Mrs. Vecchio into the room. There was another round of introductions, back-slapping and photography. Fraser's sense of humor, usually easily suppressed, threatened to escape once again as he realized he was living the stateroom scene from A Night at the Opera.

_If one more person comes into this room, I'm going to lose it, _he thought, _in more ways than one._

"Hello, son." His father stood to his right, in full dress uniform.

"Oh, no," Fraser groaned, then hissed at his father, "Go away!"

Just as he said that, there was a lull in the conversation. All eyes turned toward him. He stared helplessly back at the group, like a deer caught in the headlights.

"This is a big moment, son. I wouldn't miss it for the world," Robert Fraser said, as he fussed at his collar. "Is my lanyard straight?"

Thatcher stepped toward the bed. "Mr. Mayor, may I introduce my Deputy Liaison Officer, Constable Benton Fraser of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. As my Deputy Liaison Officer, he works very closely with the Chicago Police Department and was indispensable in the arrest of Paul Maxwell."

The Mayor of Chicago stepped forward. "I'm afraid we've been neglecting you, son." He took Fraser's hand in a strong grip and clapped him on the shoulder. Fraser managed not to wince, but it was a close thing. "A pleasure to meet you, Constable. And I want to thank you, and Detective Vecchio personally for the hard work and dedication you showed in bringing this man, who caused so much pain and heartache, to justice."

"I'm honored, sir," he said, tightly.

"The honor is all mine, son. All mine." He continued to hold the pose as the photographer stepped up. "Smile, Constable. This'll only take a minute."

"Sir, I have to tell you," Fraser spoke in low but urgent tones. "I need –" The flash popped several times, dazzling him.

Holly pushed Thatcher forward to pose with them. She drew a deep breath and stood at attention on the right side of the bed. His father did the same. Fraser panicked as he saw Holly was lining up Ray, Welsh, Mrs. Vecchio and Francesca in what was obviously going to be another round of photographs at Fraser's bedside. The thought of Francesca being so close to the bed when he was - what's the phrase that Ray used? - 'going commando,' made him blanch.

"Sir –" he tried again.

"Eh?" said the Mayor, into his left ear. "Say again. I'm a little deaf on that side."

"Don't be bashful, son," said Robert Fraser, into his right ear. "Sing out."

"Speak up, Constable," Thatcher ordered, then softened her tone and smiled widely. "We're all friends here."

Fraser, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and obeyed. "I NEED TO URINATE!" he said, loud and clear.

Every head in the room turned toward him as the flash went off.


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR**

As he waited for the light to change, Ray tried, he really tried, to think of sad things, sober things - famine, war, pestilence, his beloved Riv blown to smithereens - but all he could picture was the sight of upright, uptight Benton Fraser, RCMP, shouting out that he had to pee in front of the Mayor of Chicago, his boss, Ray's boss, Ray's mother, Ray's sister, the Mayor's bodyguards and entourage. For an instant, everyone in the room had frozen in place as they stared, shocked, at the red-faced Mountie. Then, Ray had lost it, howling with laughter, immediately joined by Lieutenant Welsh, then the Mayor, who, it turned out, had an infectious belly laugh.

Within moments, everyone in the room, with the exception of Fraser, was convulsing with mirth. Well, Ray thought, maybe not everyone. Inspector Thatcher may have joined in but it looked to Ray like she was faking it. Poor Fraser, battered and bruised, trapped in the bed _sans_ underwear, was practically jiggling at that point. Ray, still laughing his butt off, had somehow taken control and herded the hysterical crowd out of the room and closed the door. Then, still chuckling, he had helped a bare-assed Fraser hobble to the bathroom. In the nick of time.

Since then, Ray would wind down, thinking the giggling fits were over. Then, the image would reassert itself, and he'd be off on another round of mirth. He bit his lip. He had to stop this, he really did. It wasn't right, it wasn't fair, his friend was in pain. Deep down, he knew the incident wasn't_ that _funny. His uncontrollable laughter was a byproduct of his relief that Fraser was alive, sitting next to him in the Riv. Offended, but alive. A chortle escaped, but he bit it off. They had arrived at Fraser's apartment building.

Fraser fumbled with the door handle. "Thank you kindly, Ray," he said. It was stated neutrally, but Ray still heard it. That signature expression of gratitude was insincere. No, more than that. It was actually sarcastic. Fraser's unfailing politeness was failing him now. Well, who could blame him? He had been mortified and humiliated and all Ray could do was laugh at him for 97 blocks.

"Wait a minute, Benny!" Ray, feeling guilty, hurried to unstrap his own seatbelt and reached to open his door.

"That's quite all right, Ray," he said, stiffly. "I'm fine." He slid himself gingerly out of the door and climbed to his feet slowly, using both hands to support himself on the car. Under his leather jacket, he was wearing Ray's cashmere sweater and a pair of faded scrubs donated by an orderly. His own clothes had either been cut off him in the ER or were sticky with maple syrup. Francesca had taken them home to wash, mend or discard. Or, perhaps, keep under her pillow. He couldn't summon the energy to care one way or the other.

Ray caught up with him. "Here's your medication." He handed the hospital bag to Fraser. He reluctantly took it. Inspector Thatcher had insisted on meeting with his doctor, prior to release. As a result, Fraser had been forced to take a ten day medical leave. They had extracted his word of honor that he would take the pills and follow the discharge instructions to the letter before discharging him. He shuffled to the entrance of the apartment building. Ray rushed to open the heavy door for him and Fraser went through to the lobby.

Ray followed him. "I'm sorry, Benny. I'm done. No more –" A chortle escaped. He quickly bit the inside of his cheek and thought of the end of _Old Yeller_. Fraser moved slowly past the elevator toward the stairs. "Uhn-uh. You gotta take the elevator." He reached for the call button. For once, the death trap appeared to be in working order.

"I'm fine, Ray," Fraser repeated, continuing towards the stairwell with dogged determination.

"Yeah, right." Ray got in front of him, blocking his way. "It's three flights up. You'll never make it. And I'm not carrying you this time."

"I didn't ask you to." Fraser tried to push past him, but Ray wasn't budging.

They faced each other in a classic Mexican, or in this case, Canadian, standoff. Ray knew that Fraser, under normal conditions, could beat him in any staring contest. That was aptly demonstrated so many times when he was on sentry duty. But these weren't normal conditions and Fraser, to put it mildly, was not at his best. Still, Ray didn't want to manhandle him given his current condition. He stepped aside and gestured broadly to the stairs.

"Be my guest."

Fraser shuffled to the stairs. As he approached the first riser, he attempted to lift his right foot. It stayed on the floor. He tried with the left. He got one inch high, but that was as far as it went. Fraser stood there, looking silently at his traitorous feet for a long moment. Then, he turned back.

"On second thought, I think ... uh ... I'll take the ... uh ..."

"Elevator?"

"Yes."

They stood there, facing straight ahead, as the rickety apparatus groaned and rattled its way down to them.

"I apologize, Ray," he said, awkwardly.

Ray rolled his eyes. "I should be the one to apologize." He looked at his friend directly. "I've been a jerk." He stabbed the elevator button again. "You _should_ be pissed at me."

Fraser let out a noise. Ray looked at him. His lips were quirked up. Then, he burst out in a laugh, which quickly turned into a yelp. He hugged his ribs as he alternately laughed and groaned. He leaned weakly against the wall, roaring with mirth, and moaning in pain. Three flights up, Diefenbaker began howling in unison. The din was incredible. The neighbors began to poke their heads out of their apartments, murmuring and muttering at the disturbance.

Ray was nonplused. He had never seen Fraser laugh like that. Never. A smile. An occasional grin. A rare chuckle. Not these wild peals of laughter. It sobered him up completely. He was about to slap Benny for his own good when he stopped. Just then, the elevator pinged and the iron gate rattled open.

Fraser looked at him, tears streaming down his cheeks. "Nice choice of words, Ray."

"Huh?" Then, realizing what he had said, he grinned broadly. "No pun intended." He put a hand on Fraser's back to usher him into the lift and pulled it back when he sucked in a sharp breath.

"Sorry. Does it hurt?"

"Only when I laugh," he replied.

"Really?" Ray said, surprised.

"No, Ray," he deadpanned. That set Ray off again. Then, Fraser. Then, Dief. They stumbled into the elevator and rattled up to the third floor. By the time they got to the door of the apartment, Mrs. Campbell, and Mr. Mustafi were in the hallway, frowning in disapproval.

Ray greeted them all by name in Fraser's stead, since the Mountie was breathless from the exertion. He reassured them that he'd get the wolf quieted down, then quickly hustled Fraser inside and shut the door. He leaned against it.

"Whew! It's like running the gauntlet."

Fraser shuffled to the bed and sat down heavily on the edge. Diefenbaker put a paw on his knee and looked up at him, head cocked to one side.

"It's the drugs, Dief," he said, enunciating carefully. The wolf made a noise, a sort of whine-whimper that really sounded like a question to Ray. "Really. A little giddiness. I just need to rest."

"You want I should close it?" Ray gestured to the half-open window.

"No, leave it open, please," Fraser said, then yawned hugely. He tried to cover his mouth. "Ow,' he said, at the instinctive movement, then to Ray, "Excuse me." He watched as Ray scooped kibble into Dief's bowl and freshened his water. He eased himself back on the bed until he was as comfortable as he could manage. He closed his eyes for just a moment. He'd thank Ray when he was done tending to Dief, return his sweater, and ...

Dief padded over to his bowl. He looked up at Ray and made a noise. He seemed to expect some kind of response.

"You're welcome," Ray offered.

That seemed to satisfy the wolf, who bent his head and chowed down.

Ray opened the refrigerator door. Not much in there, besides maple syrup. He checked the pantry. He moved a can of soup down from the top shelf and set it on the counter. He did the same with a pot. He filled a glass with water and carried it over to the bedside table.

Fraser was out for the count, breathing in deep, regular rhythm. Ray eased his shoes off and set them neatly under the bed. He grabbed the extra blanket out of the wardrobe and spread it over him. Sleep really was the best prescription. Ray had tried to convince him to come home to his house, but Fraser had declined. He had to agree that he was much more likely to actually rest in the spartan apartment than at Ray's noisy, crowded house, especially with Frannie underfoot. He would stop in tomorrow after his shift and check on him.

Ray turned off the light. "G'night, Dief," he called, softly. "Don't eat my sweater." He got a woof in the affirmative. With one last look around, he exited and pulled the door shut behind him. It bothered him that he couldn't lock it, but there was nothing to be done about that now. As he walked past the next door, Mr. Mustafi poked his head out.

"Is he all right?" he asked Ray, a hint of a Middle Eastern accent coloring his words.

"Yeah," he said, "he'll be fine." He nodded, continuing down the hall. He stopped and came back. "Keep an eye on him, will ya?" He handed Mustafi his card. "That's my cellular phone."

Mustafi took the card and squinted at it. "I will," he said, solemnly.

Ray wished him a good night and proceeded down the three flights of stairs. There had been enough danger in the past twenty-four hours. No way he was taking another ride in that decrepit antique. As he started the Riv, he looked up at the third floor window. "Night, Benny," he said, then headed home, eagerly anticipating his own bed.

Fraser jerked awake from a dream in which he was falling, falling, falling forever into an abyss - a dream he suspected would be with him for a while. He glanced at the luminous face of his alarm clock. Three a.m. He lay quietly, careful not to disturb the warm presence tucked up close beside him. Dief must really be worried about him as the wolf much preferred to sleep alone. Well, he'd given him cause last night.

It had been a close call. If it hadn't been for Ray's quick thinking ... He didn't want to follow that thought through to its depressing conclusion. He had scared his friends last night. And, if he was honest, himself. Ray had been right - he should have let go of Maxwell and used both hands to climb back to the safety of the roof. It was logical, rational. If their positions had been reversed, he would have urged Ray to let the man drop and save himself, and not thought any less of him for doing so. Fraser could not explain why he didn't let go. It hadn't been a choice. He couldn't do it. He was_ incapable_ of letting go.

Why, he asked himself, bitterly? Why had he held on to a violent criminal almost at the cost of his own life? A man who had caused the dangerous situation in the first place with the intention of killing him. Duty? Honor? Martyr complex? His thoughts chased themselves round and round, finding no answers, until he had to get up. He eased himself to the edge of the bed. Dief stirred, and whimpered. He stroked his ruff until the wolf settled, then shuffled to the bathroom. When he was finished, he realized that he was hungry. He knew there wasn't much provender in the apartment. He needed to go shopping, but perhaps a piece of ham and a glass of milk would suffice. He shuffled to the refrigerator and opened the door with a small grunt of effort.

Next to the nearly empty carton of milk and in front of the maple syrup were two unfamiliar items. Curious, he pulled them out. Written in rather florid handwriting on masking tape, was the word "hummus"on the plastic tub and "pita" on the foil. It was the same handwriting as on Mr. Mustafi's mailbox card. Fraser pried the lid off the container and sniffed appreciatively. Garlic, olive oil, and lemon. He felt a bump against his leg. Diefenbaker looked intently at the container, tongue lolling.

"Yes, of course, you may have some." Fraser tore a piece off the pita bread and spread it thickly with the smooth paste. He gave it to Dief who gulped it down in one bite, then wagged his tail appreciatively. Fraser nodded in encouragement. "This is the type of healthy food you should be eating, instead of the donuts and Milk Duds you seem to favor these days." He divided the treat between two plates, then placed Dief's share on the floor. Fraser nearly beat him in finishing the meal. It was that good and he was that hungry. The wolf whined. "That's all there is." Fraser licked his own fingers. "Perhaps Mr. Mustafi will part with the recipe." Deif yipped hopefully, then settled on his usual spot on the floor.

Fraser washed the container and set it on the drainboard. He lined up the medicine bottles that the hospital had sent home, checked the directions, then took the requisite pills. He chased them with milk, then made a face. Milk and garlicky hummus were not a fortuitous pairing. As he put the milk carton away, he noticed the bottle of maple syrup on the top shelf. He poured a minute amount on his plate and tasted. It cleared his palate. His brand of maple syrup was a good Canadian staple, but it was no Quebecois Dark Reserve. He retrieved the sense memory of the premium syrup that he had tasted yesterday at Nick's. It was sublime. He had enjoyed watching Ray's face as he had tasted one of the best, if not the very best, maple syrups in the world. Even Ray, who was by no means a connoisseur of the liquid gold, could tell the difference.

Fraser frowned. How was it that the premiere food product of Canada, whose exportation outside of the French Canadian province was strictly controlled, was being sold in the back alleys of Chicago? It was a mystery. A mystery he intended to solve. After all, he needed something to occupy himself for the next ten days. He moved slowly back to his bed and climbed in. He was asleep in moments. Dief looked up from his spot on the floor and nodded in approval before joining his pack mate in slumber.


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER FIVE**

"And then what happened?" a wide-eyed Sophie Dombrowski asked, her lovely chin in her hands, elbows leaning on the canteen table where today's front page of the Chicago Tribune was spread out. A picture of Ray shaking hands with the Mayor, flanked by Welsh, Thatcher, his mother, and Frannie was below the headline, "Yuppie Burglar Nabbed in Daring Rooftop Chase."

"I shot the cable." At her gasp, he reassured her. "See, I knew that would swing him over to the lower roof, no problem. All he had to do was let go when I told him to." He paused as she continued to stare at him, admiringly. "Which I did."

"That was so smart of you! And brave, too!" Sophie sighed. "I'd have been too scared to do anything!"

Ray shrugged. "Just doing my job," he said, modestly. A small crowd, mostly female, was gathered in the break room, with Ray in the center of it. Elaine walked in, carrying an armload of files. "Ray, how's Fraser?"

"He's fine. Banged up a little, but nothing serious."

"Thanks to you, Ray," Sophie cooed.

Behind her, Elaine rolled her eyes. "The Lieutenant wants you."

"Excuse me, Sophie," Ray said, with a smile. "Duty calls."

"Oh, of course," she said, standing up. "Uh, Ray? There's something I'd like to ask you. Would you pop up to HR, later?"

"Uh, sure," he said, uncertainly. Sophie gave him a wave, then she and Maria headed out of the canteen, coffees in hand.

Elaine gave him a look. "Have you seen her boyfriend?"

"They broke up," he said, defensively.

"Uh-huh," Elaine said. "But not forever, I bet. You be careful." She looked earnestly up at him. "Is he really OK?"

"When I left last night, he was sleeping like a baby," Ray said. He smiled. "He'll be fine, Elaine."

She nodded. As he walked past her, she patted him on the back and whispered, "You done good, Ray."

Ray beamed. As he made his way to the Lieutenant's office, he received a few more pats on the back, some thumbs up and a couple of "way to go, Vecchio's" Someone had tacked the front page to the big bulletin board on the back wall. Ray gave it till tomorrow before his photo was sporting a Groucho mustache and glasses. But today ... today was a good day.

The door to the Lieu's office was closed and the blinds were down. Ray knocked and was told to enter.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" He came to a standstill when he saw Inspector Thatcher sitting in the chair in front of Welsh's desk.

"Sit down, Detective," Welsh said.

He sat in the remaining chair. Ray swallowed, wondering what he had done wrong now. Damn, this had been a good day.

Welsh spoke first. "How is the Big Red One?"

"Fine, sir," he said hoarsely, then cleared his dry throat.

Welsh stroked his chin. "Inspector Thatcher and I have revisited our conversation of yesterday. About the continuation of your ... uh ... relationship ... with Constable Fraser."

"We're just friends, sir," Ray said, hastily.

"Your _working _relationship, Detective," Welsh said, drily.

"Ah," Ray said.

"The Mayor expressed an interest in the two of you, yesterday. He wanted to know how it came to pass that a Chicago police detective and a Canadian Mountie were investigating and apprehending a criminal together. I tried to explain, but found myself somewhat at a loss."

"I can see why it would be difficult, sir."

"There are ... concerns," Thatcher interjected. "Concerns that involve international law, inter-agency cooperation, workplace injury, to name just a few."

Ray's heart sank. This was it. The end. Fraser was the best partner he had ever had. They had made a great team, complementing each other's strengths, buffering each other's weaknesses. Now, the red tape was reaching out to strangle them. Granted, Ray's job would go on. But, Fraser ... he'd be stuck with lost passports, tourist visas, and sentry duty, day in and day out. It would drive him crazy. Or back to Canada.

Ray spoke directly to Thatcher. His tone was calm, resigned. "Let me be the one to break the news to him."

"But you don't even – " she protested.

"What? Rank him? I'm a friend. It would be better coming from me." He got to his feet.

"Wait a minute, Detective," Welsh said.

"I just want to get this over with, sir," Ray said, heading for the door.

"Vecchio!" Welsh's tone was sharp and stopped him in his tracks. His tone softened. "You're making assumptions. And you know what happens when you assume."

"Sit down, Detective," Thatcher said.

Ray stayed where he was.

"Sit down," Welsh commanded.

He sat abruptly.

Welsh gestured to Thatcher. "Do you want to do the honors, Inspector? After all, it was your idea."

Thatcher straightened in her chair. "Yes. Right. Well." She cleared her throat. "It's no secret that I did not initially approve of Constable Fraser's extracurricular activities at this precinct. But, as you pointed out, Lieutenant, what a person does on his or her own time should be up to that person. That is, so long as it does not conflict with the duties and requirements of their official position." She looked at Ray, expectantly.

He nodded, reluctantly, not sure where she was going.

She took a breath. "There is a special relationship between our two countries, Detective. A relationship which has endured and evolved over nearly two hundred years. A relationship grounded in mutual respect which recognizes our individual differences but also acknowledges our common interests. The recent NAFTA accords are an illustration of that."

Ray fidgeted in his chair. What was it in the Canadian DNA that required a minimum of 100 words where ten would suffice? At a warning glance from Welsh, he stilled and tried to look interested in the history lesson.

She continued. "As it was pointed out to me by His Honor last night, that special relationship between our two nations is reflected in the informal partnership you share with Constable Fraser." She looked expectantly at him. "Made manifest, so to speak."

Ray felt a flicker of hope. He tried to parse out what she had said. "You mean ... we're ... like a mini-UN?"

"Exactly," she said, pleased. "But even though this partnership is a public relations triumph, there are ... nonetheless ... practicalities."

"Practicalities?" Ray repeated.

"Yes. Practicalities," she agreed, as if that explained it all.

Ray looked at Welsh for a clue.

Welsh steepled his fingers before speaking. "It means that this informal partnership requires some sort of formality, Detective."

Ray groaned. He had been right all along. The red tape was rearing its ugly head.

Welsh picked up a piece of paper from his desk. "Welcome to the first International Joint Task Force of the Canadian Consulate and the Chicago Police Department." He handed the paper to Ray. "And, I might add, the _only_ International Joint Task Force of the Canadian Consulate and the Chicago Police Department."

Ray looked at the paper, which was signed by both Welsh and Thatcher. It was on Chicago P.D. letterhead, but impressed with the Canadian seal. It looked very official.

"Who's on this task force?"

"You and Constable Fraser," Welsh said.

"Do I get diplomatic immunity?"

"No," Thatcher said.

"Does it involve a raise?"

"No," Welsh and Thatcher said, in unison.

Ray scratched his head. "So, what's different?"

Welsh sighed and rolled his eyes. "Don't be obtuse, Vecchio." He grimaced. "Nothing is different. Except, you now hold a piece of paper that authorizes you and Fraser to do what you two have been doing already."

"I think the American slang is 'legalese,'" she added, helpfully.

"But you can't tell anyone about it," Welsh added. At Ray's questioning look, he cleared his throat. "Let's just call this an 'informal formality,' shall we? A copy of this will be in your file."

"And in Constable Fraser's," Thatcher said.

Ray grinned, knowingly. "You call it 'legalese'. I'll call it C.Y.A." At Thatcher's questioning look, he explained. "Cover Your –"

Welsh ahem-ed loudly.

"–Assets," he finished.


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER SIX**

Ray pulled up in front of the Consulate. It was getting dark as it did so early these days but he could see Fraser standing sentry duty in front of the building. He couldn't believe that Thatcher had consigned him to the cold, hard pavement on his first day back from medical leave! Punishing him for the embarrassing incident in his hospital room, no doubt. As he walked around the front of his car, he realized he was mistaken. The red-suited statue was not, in fact, Fraser.

"In the doghouse, eh, Turnbull?" Ray said, as he approached. He didn't get an answer, which was to be expected. Still, the younger Mountie blinked and looked chagrined. Ray ignored the better angel of his nature and sidled up to the man. He spoke in his ear. "There once was a man from Nantucket," he began, then stopped at the look of horror on the kid's face. Ray clapped him on the shoulder, feeling the bulk of several underlayments of clothing beneath the red serge. "Sorry," he said, and continued up the steps and through the heavy wooden doors. He had tried that one on Fraser his first week in Chicago, to no reaction, not even a blush. Fraser had told him once that he used the art of Zen when on sentry duty, which freed his mind from his physical body, and enabled him to endure hours of standing still and the antics of passersby, without reaction. Well, maybe he should teach those techniques to Turnbull. His face was an open book.

Ray started up the curving stairwell to Fraser's second floor office. A voice downstairs halted him in his tracks.

"Ray!" Fraser approached, a stack of files in his arms. He was dressed in the brown uniform. "You're early," he said, surprised.

"I had to run a personal errand over this way."

"I have to finish my Form 10989Bs," he said, apologetically. "Please, make yourself comfortable in the kitchen." He gestured to the end of a long hallway. "There's a hot pot of bark tea," he began, then at Ray's grimace, continued, "the coffee is left over from this morning, though." He shifted the files in his arms. "Give me a moment and I'll make a fresh pot."

"Nah, don't bother," he said. "I'm a cop. We thrive on bad coffee." He continued down the hall.

Sure enough, the coffeepot was cold. He filled a mug and zapped it in the microwave, added cream from the fridge, and settled down at the small table. There were several newspapers on the table. Ray idly flipped through them. _Calgary Herald. Vancouver Sun. Globe and Mail. La Presse_, that one was in French. _Yukon News._ While the other papers were addressed to The Consulate of Canada, Chicago, the Yukon paper was addressed to B. Fraser. I guess _Toboggan Today _doesn't deliver, he thought. He settled down with the paper and contentedly sipped his coffee. At some point, he heard the click-click of Diefenbaker's claws on the hardwood floor as the wolf padded over and settled by his feet.

"Dief," he acknowledged.

"R-rrrayyyy," growled Dief.

Ray did a double take and peered under the table. "Say that again!"

Dief looked quizzically at him until Ray returned to the newspaper. A half hour later, Fraser poked his head through the door. He was wearing his hat and coat. "I'm ready if you are, Ray."

Ray looked up from the newspaper, surprised. He had been completely engrossed in the news from the frozen North. He folded the paper, rinsed his coffee cup, then shrugged into his coat. He followed Fraser out. He noticed that his friend was moving a little slowly, a little stiffly, but otherwise normally. Good.

Fraser exited the door, pulling on his gloves as he went. He glanced at the red statue, then looked at his watch. "End of shift, Turnbull," he called.

The young officer immediately hustled to the steps, alternately rubbing his arms and breathing on his hands. He hurried through the door. "G'night, sirs," he muttered, as he passed them.

"Good night," Fraser replied. "Get warm!" he called after him, then "Dief! You're letting the heat out." Dief padded out. Fraser shut and locked the front door. He opened the passenger side of the Riv, held the seat for Dief to climb in the back, and slid into the front. Ray started the engine and let it warm up.

"What did he do?" he asked, curious.

"A mishap with the daily communiques from Ottawa."

"Bummer," he said, as he pulled away from the curb.

"Yes."

Traffic was stop and go as they made their way to Cabrini-Green. The Mayor's godson had been released from the hospital yesterday. They needed to take his statement as they continued to build the case for the prosecution against Paul Maxwell. Traffic was relatively light for this time of day but it was all the way across town.

"Excuse me." It was the fifth time in as many minutes.

Ray rolled his eyes. "You don't have to keep saying 'excuse me' every time, Benny. One per city block is enough."

"That's not how I was - *- urp -* - excuse me, Ray - raised." Fraser rubbed his chest and grimaced.

"You sick?"

"Indigestion," he explained, stifling another belch. "Excuse me, Ray." At Ray's look, he added, hastily, "I can't help it."

"Burping or apologizing?"

"Either." He sighed. "My neighbors have been very kindly supplying me with covered dishes since I was laid up. Hummus, pierogis, chitlins and collard greens, kim chee - *- urp -* - excuse me, Ray. Some of the dishes can be a little ... rich." He tugged at his belt. "Like me, my refrigerator is full to bursting."

Dief woofed happily from the backseat.

"And you, being the polite Canadian that you are, have to eat some right in front of them."

"Well, they insist, Ray."

He nodded. "Hey, I'm Italian. My first words were 'mangia-mangia.'"

"I've also eaten at twenty six," Fraser paused, thinking, "no, twenty seven pancake houses, diners, and cafes in the downtown area since I've been off."

"Why, with all that food in your fri–?" he began, then answered his own question. "The Montreal Black."

"Quebecois Dark," he corrected, automatically.

Ray whistled. "That's a lot of greasy spoons."

"And forks and knives," Fraser added, "*- urp -* - excuse me, Ray - plates and cups, too."

Ray had enough. He leaned over and popped open the glove box. "Here," he said, handing Fraser a small bottle of Pepto-Bismol. "Take a swig."

He held his hands up in a warding off gesture. "No, thank you, Ray. I don't like to take –"

"You can't burp and pardon your way through the interview, Benny. We'll be there forever."

Fraser hesitated.

Ray zeroed in for the kill. "Besides, a belching Mountie is not exactly a credit to the uniform."

At that, Fraser grabbed the bottle, unscrewed the cap, and took a healthy dose of the medicine. He gagged and wiped his mouth. He looked at Ray, in suspicion. "I think it's spoiled."

Ray sniffed the bottle, took a small sip, then screwed the lid back on. "Nah, that's what it's supposed to taste like."

Fraser swallowed convulsively and flicked his tongue repeatedly over the roof of his mouth, trying to get rid of the taste. He gratefully accepted a piece of gum from Ray. The chalky, pink liquid was vile, but after a few minutes, he had to acknowledge that it did the trick.

"So, how's it going?"

"It's helping. Thanks, Ray."

"No, I meant ... any results on the Hunt?"

Fraser nodded. He reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled out his notebook. He flipped through a few pages. "I found high quality Canadian maple syrup at six establishments. Three varieties. No Reserve, however, other than at Nick's." He tugged at his ear. "No leads on the suppliers, as of yet."

"Let me guess. Bottles of maple syrup just happened to fall off the back of somebody's truck, right?"

"Essentially, yes."

"Why am I not surprised?"

Fraser consulted his notes again. "What I find even more curious is that there are no reports of missing maple syrup – no thefts, no shipment hijackings, no warehouse break-ins - in any of the law enforcement data bases. I checked all of them - RCMP, federal, provincial, territorial, and tribal agencies. Nothing." He looked at Ray. "At least, nothing in the data bases that I could access."

Ray nodded. "I'll check out this side of the border. Put the word out to my snitches."

"Thanks, Ray."

"Just doing my part as a member of the ... ' he paused, thinking. "The I.J.T.F ... uh ...C.C.C.P.D." The capital letters were evident in his tone.

Fraser looked puzzled, then smiled. "The International Joint Task Force of the Canadian Consulate and the Chicago Police Department. The Inspector informed me this morning."

"Gotta love those anagrams, Benny."

"I think you mean acronyms, Ray.

"Whatever." He pulled over to the curb. They had arrived. "It's all alphabet soup to me."

It took about an hour to get the statement from the mayor's godson, a good-looking kid in his late twenties, who, though recovering from the skull fracture, was still pale and sickly-looking. He could not identify Paul Maxwell as his attacker, as he was struck in his sleep. Still, he did know the man from their mutual membership in the health club. And he was able to ID his own jewelry and personal effects which were seized from Maxwell's apartment. He had been thrilled to meet an actual Mountie, and had peppered Fraser with questions.

On the way down in the elevator, Ray gave him a sly glance. "I didn't know your horse's name was Buttercup."

"I rode him as part of my job, Ray. I didn't name him." He stepped out as the elevator doors open. "And Buttercup was very virile. A real stallion."

"Ri - ght," he said, skeptically.

"No, Ray," Fraser said, "he was _really_ a stallion."

"Whatever you say, Benny."

They pulled into the station lot and parked. On the way up to the squad room, Fraser was besieged by so many well wishes and congratulations from the uniforms that Ray just plowed on up to his desk without him. It was a good fifteen minutes before he and Diefenbaker entered the detectives room.

Guardino spotted him first. "Hey, it's Big Red!" he shouted. Heads turned and greetings rang out. Fraser was clapped on the back several times as he snaked his way through the desks. Welsh, hearing the commotion, greeted him from the doorway of his office.

"Welcome back, Constable," he called out in his rough-hewn voice.

Fraser turned, hat in hand. He was obviously flustered by all the attention. "Thank you kindly, Lieutenant." He spun back and nearly knocked over Elaine. He dropped the hat and grabbed her shoulders, steadying her.

"Elaine! Excuse me!"

Elaine took a deep breath. "Fraser! My fault. I crept up on you."

"Are you all right?" he asked, solicitously.

She peered up into his face. "I should be the one asking you." She put a hand on his chest. "All better now?"

He realized he was still holding her. Very close. He let go and took a step back. "Oh, yes. I'm fine." He shrugged. "It was nothing, really."

She blew a lock of hair out of her eyes and gave him an exasperated look. "Nothing, huh?" She leaned in and kissed his cheek, the spice of her perfume filling his nose. "Glad you're back." Then, she was gone. Dief, tongue lolling, trotted after her.

Fraser stood, his hand on his cheek, staring after her. "Earth to Fraser," Ray called a couple of times. He shook himself and took a step towards Ray's desk, stepping on the crown of his hat. He bent and picked it up, punching out the crown from the inside. He slid onto the chair across from Ray. The squad room slowly returned to business as usual. Mostly. Every few minutes, someone, usually female, would come over and congratulate Fraser or welcome him back.

Now, Ray loved the recognition and accolades, even though he knew it was as fleeting as yesterday's news. He had basked in his moment in the sun last week. But Fraser ... Fraser sincerely hated the attention. He alternately tugged at his collar and twirled his hat in nervous fingers as he was fussed over. Ray took pity on him.

"You wanna type the statements on Maxwell while I do the computer search on the syrup?"

Fraser nearly leapt over the desk to get to the typewriter, which sheltered him in the corner behind Ray's desk. Ray handed him the forms and his notes and happily left him to it. Ray turned on the computer. He started with home base. Neither the Chicago Police Department nor the Illinois State Police had any reports of large scale maple syrup thefts. He moved on to the feds, sharing his results, or lack thereof, with Fraser as he went. FBI, USDA, Commerce, and Customs - nothing. They spent a companionable couple of hours. Ray kept Fraser abreast of his search results and fielded Fraser's questions and comments on the witness statements.

Ray leaned back and stretched his sore neck. "You're sure the syrups you tasted were Canadian?"

"Yes, Ray."

"So," he reasoned, "chances are they were stolen in Canada and brought across the border."

Fraser steepled his fingers. "We're assuming they were stolen in the first place. It's odd that there are no reports." He looked at Ray. "But to answer your question, most of the maple syrup consumed in the US is imported from Canada. The syrups could have been legitimately shipped to the US, then stolen from the repository here."

Ray frowned "We don't make our own syrup?"

"You do," he nodded. "But, as a country, you consume far more than you produce domestically. Vermont is the largest producer in the US, but it still has only five percent of the world supply. Another ten percent of production is the combined output of New York, Maine, Wisconsin, Ohio, New Hampshire, Michigan, Pennsylvania, Massachusetts, and Connecticut."

Ray gave him an irritated look.

"What?"

"Nothing, Mr. Encyclopedia. Where does the other eighty five percent come from?"

"Canada," Fraser said, with a touch of pride. "Quebec, primarily. And since the implementation of NAFTA, our market share in the US has been growing."

"OK, OK, I get it. Maple syrup is big business in Canada."

"It's more than that, Ray," he said, earnestly. "It's part of our national identity." At his questioning look, he prompted, "The Maple Leaf?"

"Oh, right," he said, "the hockey team."

"I meant our flag, Ray."

"Oh, yeah. I knew that," he said, hastily. And before Fraser could launch the Canadian history lesson that was obviously on the tip of his tongue, he added, "I'm hungry. Wanna get a bite?"

Fraser looked a little queasy, but consulted his notebook. "Would you mind if we tried the Starr Diner, 2598 Fifteenth Street?"

"Sure," Ray said, as he stood and pulled on his coat. He picked up the stack of files on his desk. "Let me drop these in the Lieutenant's office." He smiled. Six cases closed and prepped for the State's Attorney. He put them in the Lieu's in-basket, triumphantly. They found Diefenbaker curled up in the canteen in hopes of scoring a snack. When he heard they were heading to an eatery, he sprang to his feet.

Ray's diversion didn't work. He still got the history lesson in the car.

"You know, Ray. Your Stars and Stripes was officially adopted by Congress in 1777 in nearly the same design as exists today – subject to the addition of a star when a new state enters the union, of course. And minor changes to the official color tones. But Canada adopted the Maple Leaf flag only recently, relatively speaking." Fraser rubbed an eyebrow with a thumb. "In fact, in our lifetimes."

"Really?" he said, interested in spite of himself.

"February 15, 1965. Flag Day," Fraser said. "In fact, the Great Flag Debate of 1964 still rankles in some quarters." He looked serious. "I'm sorry to say, it got ... ugly."

"Over a Maple Leaf?" Ray said, incredulous.

"Oh, yes, Ray. Tempers ran high. The debate ran along party lines and grew quite raucous. It culminated in the vote on the floor of the Commons, with the Liberal majority singing _O Canada_ over the Tory opposition'srendition of _God Save the Queen_."

"That_ is _ugly," he agreed.

Fraser shook his head, sadly. "Not our proudest moment."

Diefenbaker yip-growled from the back.

"We're not getting into all that right now," Fraser said, over his shoulder.

More growling-whines.

"No," he said, firmly. "Ray is not interested in the minutiae of the debate."

More noises.

"Diefenbaker, I will_ not _be drawn in."

Ray hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "What's with him?"

Fraser sighed. "It's an old argument. Diefenbaker favors the conservative position; I tend to side with the modernists." A grumble and a growl. "We've never settled it." Then, pointedly to Dief, "And we're not going to tonight!" He sat resolutely forward.

They continued in silence for another block, then Ray spoke. "So, Sophie asked me to the wedding."

"What did you say?"

"What do you think I said?"

Fraser was silent for a moment. "I think you did whatever you thought was right," he said, diplomatically.

"She's a beautiful woman and she needs a date. I'd be helping her out."

"That's very gallantof you, Ray," he said, studiously neutral.

"Yeah, I'm a regular Ganymede."

Fraser puzzled over that one. "You mean, Galahad?"

"That's what I said." Ray peered at the red light, tapping his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. "Actually, I turned her down."

"You did?"

"Yeah," Ray said, shifting in his seat. "We talked. About the boyfriend. About why she wanted to invite me." He shrugged. "She cried a little, said she still loved him. I told her she deserved better than a fling on the rebound. And so did I." He scratched his chin. "Make a long story short, I told her to call him." He looked at Fraser. "Turns out, they'll be going to the wedding together."

"_Very _chivalrous, Sir Raymond," Fraser said, with a tip of his hat.

"Nah," he said. "It would never have worked out. She hates basketball."

"Of course, it wouldn't," he agreed, smiling inwardly. Ray would rather blow up another Riviera then admit to doing anything noble. He peered through the windshield. "There it is, ahead on the right."

Parking was tight. Ray finally found a space on a side street next to a dark alley. Fraser got out of the car. As he held the door for Dief, he leaned down and spoke directly to him. "As you know, you will have to wait outside. I will bring something out to you." Dief issued a rather cantankerous noise. "Don't take that tone with me, mister. I don't make the health regulations."

Dief tossed his head and sniffed at the entrance to the alley across from the car. He made a grumble-growl and continued sniffing around at a leisurely pace.

Fraser looked at him, with annoyance. "Ray, why don't you go on ahead and get us a table. I'll join you in a few minutes." He turned his face away from the wolf and lowered his voice. "I'm afraid he's sulking. This may take a little while."

Ray finished feeding the meter and nodded. "OK. You want I should order you a drink?"

"Tea with lemon, please." Then, he raised his voice as he stepped closer to the alley. "Diefenbaker, would you please take care of business!"

Dief grumbled, tossed his head, and turned away from him. He padded into the alley, which was in shadow.

"For heaven's sake! It was nearly thirty years ago! You weren't even born yet!" Ray heard the frustration in Fraser's voice and smiled. He walked to the corner, turned and headed toward the restaurant.

Suddenly, Diefenbaker sniffed, stiffened and let out a sharp bark. He ran into the alley, disappearing from sight. Fraser stood a moment, then called "Ray!" He ran after the wolf.

Ray, who was halfway down the block, heard something in his tone, and reversed course. He peered down the dark alley, then fumbled for his keys. He knew better than to run into a dark alley in this, or any, neighborhood. He unlocked the trunk of the Riv and retrieved a large flashlight, but left it off. He also knew better than to shine a light into a dark alley without knowing what was down there. He thought a moment, then drew his gun. He moved to the mouth of the alley. He debated with himself for a moment, then held his position, straining to hear.

Dief was running full tilt straight down the center of the alley. Fraser was taking it more cautiously. His eyes were rapidly adjusting, but it was still very dark. In the distance, he could just make out a vehicle crowding the narrow alley. He heard voices. He stopped to listen. Two, no three voices. Male. Too far away for him to hear what they were saying or see what they were doing. He crept forward.

Suddenly, the voices raised in surprise and consternation as the three men were talking all at once.

"Hey, dog, get out of here!"

"Beat it!"

"Shit, get away from there!"

The vehicle's headlights blazed on. Fraser raised a hand to shield his eyes, but he'd lost his night vision. He moved closer, hugging the alley wall. He was reluctant to make his presence known until he knew what was going on, but he was concerned about Dief.

He heard the sounds of a scuffle, then "Gimme that! Grab him, Dave!"

"Nice doggie," a man said, in a wheedling tone. "Be a nice doggie and drop it."

Fraser was now close enough to see Diefenbaker, fully illuminated in the glare of the headlights, flanked by two men in silhouette. They moved toward the wolf, crouching, with their hands outspread.

"Come on, pooch! Drop it!"

"Here, doggie! Nice doggie!"

One of the men lunged at Dief. There was a struggle, then the sound of breaking glass. Dief barked furiously.

"Shit! He ripped my jacket."

"Big deal! Grab the mutt."

"But it was my dad's jacket!"

Another voice, the third man, came from inside the vehicle. "Stop wasting time, for f—'s sake. Shoot it, Al!" Fraser saw the first man reach into his coat then extend his arm.

The second man, Dave of the torn jacket, stepped in front of the gunman, shielding Dief. He said, "Al, don't. It's just a dog!"

Fraser yelled, "Gentlemen! That's my dog! I'm sorry he disturbed you!"

The distraction worked. The men turned toward him. Al concealed the gun behind his back.

Fraser stepped away from the wall, one hand shielding his eyes, and the other stretched out in a friendly gesture. He needed to defuse this situation before Diefenbaker got hurt.

"Who the hell are you?" Dave asked. Fraser couldn't see his face, but he sounded young.

"My name is Constable Benton Fraser of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police," he answered, politely, intending to reassure them with his rank and position.

Alarmed voices all at once.

"Canadian?!"

"Mountie?!"

"Cop!"

"Why, yes," he began, then froze as Al brought his arm in front and pointed the gun at Fraser.

Dave shouted, "No, Al!"

They had forgotten about Dief. Which was a very good thing for Fraser. The wolf leapt on the gunman's back, spoiling his aim. Then, Dief took off like a rocket, heading back down the alley from whence he came. Fraser ducked back into the shadows as a shot rang out. It hit the wall behind him. A second shot also missed the mark. Just then, Diefenbaker passed him at full gallop, racing to exit the alley. Fraser followed, running in a zigzag pattern, trying not to present a broad back in a straight line to the gunman. Still, he felt like he had a target painted on his jacket, the bullseye centered right over the scar left behind from the last time he had been shot in the back.

Then, with a sinking feeling, he heard the roar of the car's engine. The tires squealed as the car raced down the narrow alley behind him. The alley was one long, straight, narrow passage. There was nowhere to go, no doors or hollows to duck into, no dumpsters to shelter in, no fire escapes to swing on to. Fraser abandoned the zigzag pattern and ran for his life. He had a head start, but the car was gaining on him. His only chance was to clear the alley before the vehicle ran him down. He was racing full out, legs pumping, lungs straining, praying he wouldn't slip or stumble on the uneven surface.

"Run, son!" he heard his father's voice in his ear.

Fraser had no breath to rebuke his father for, once again, stating the obvious. He could see the mouth of the alley and the street beyond. He summoned all his reserves and put on a final burst of speed. But he wasn't going to make it. The vehicle was right on his heels.

Ray stepped out of the shadows, flashlight and gun held in an extended two-handed grip. He shone the flashlight into the windshield on the driver's side. The vehicle swerved away from Fraser, careening off the left alley wall. Fraser cleared the alley and dove to his right, his momentum rolling him over and over on the pavement until he slammed against the side of the Riv.

The car fishtailed, then recovered. Now, it was aiming for Ray. Ray dove out of its path, with inches to spare. The car swerved, fishtailed once or twice, then recovered and sped down Fifteenth Street. It ran the red light, nearly colliding with oncoming traffic, before it was brought under control and sped away. The blare of horns echoed in its wake.

Ray got to his feet, still holding the gun. He looked down at himself. There was a hole in the knee of his trousers. Another Armani bites the dust, he thought bitterly. He scooped up the flashlight and walked over to his car. Fraser sat with his back against the Riv, legs splayed, chest heaving. Dief stood over him.

"You OK?" Ray asked. "I heard the shots ... started in after you when Dief raced by, then I saw you running hell-bent-for-leather ahead of that car. Thought I'd be better positioned here."

Fraser nodded. Words came out one at a time between pants. "Good ... call ... I'm ... fine ... A ... little ... winded."

Ray sympathized. His friend had just come off medical leave and was not one hundred percent yet. Still, the speed with which he had cleared that alley was impressive. Well, a speeding car on your ass was a great motivator.

"You catch a license plate?"

"No ... Ray."

"Me, neither. I think it was a Camaro. Classic." He peered down at his friend. "What the hell was that all about?"

Fraser eyed Diefenbaker. "Dief_ ... _care ... to_ ... _explain?"

In response, Dief bent his head and dropped something in his lap. Fraser stared at it, then looked back at the wolf. Dief woofed, and looked pointedly back at the alley. Even Ray got it. He reached out a hand to Fraser and hauled him to his feet. He wobbled a bit, before letting go of Ray's hand. He held up the object for Ray to see. Ray cocked an eyebrow, then shone the flashlight into the alley.

Dief led the way. As they walked, Fraser gave Ray a synopsis of events. As he finished, Dief, barked once, then began licking something off the ground.

"Dief! That may be evidence!" Fraser remonstrated. The wolf, looking guilty, backed away. "Ray, could you shine the flashlight here, please." The light gleamed off a puddle of dark liquid, surrounding shards of glass. Fraser, down on one knee, dipped a finger in the puddle, and licked it.

"Aagghh." Ray shuddered. He would never, ever get used to that. "What is it?"

"Maple syrup." He examined the shards of broken glass. "No labels, no identifiers." He took his handkerchief out of a pocket, spread it on the ground, and placed the shards carefully within it.

"I thought you said there were no identifiers."

"I can't leave broken glass in an alley. Someone might step on it." Fraser dipped his finger in the puddle again.

"Ewwww, don't do it again," he complained.

"Could be the Reserve, but there are other ... conflicting notes, so I can't be sure ... motor oil ...10 W 30, I believe ... antifreeze." He licked his lips and closed his eyes. "And ... uh ...," he glanced at Ray, and stood up, "well, never mind."

Dief made a derogatory noise.

"I know," Fraser said, indignantly.

He whined-growled again.

"What?' Ray said, "Something else?"

"It's not important," he said, standing up with the bundled handkerchief in one hand. "What_ is_ important –"

"Tell me."

"You won't like it, Ray."

"So, tell me anyway."

"I detected feline urine." Dief yipped. "So did he."

Ray made a face. "And you think Pepto-Bismol is disgusting," he muttered. He shone the flashlight around the alley. "Bingo!" He centered the light on a door with the numbers "2598" and "Diner" stenciled on to it. "We interrupted a delivery."

"It would appear so," Fraser said. "If I may recap." He pointed way down the alley to where the Riv was illuminated by a streetlight. "Dief picked up the scent of maple syrup from the street." Dief barked once. "He raced into the alley, found the men beginning to unload the vehicle. He confronted them and confiscated a bottle containing the Reserve." Another bark. "One of the men, a young man, I believe, named Dave grappled with Dief, whereupon the bottle shattered. But during the struggle, Dief managed to tear this from Dave's sleeve, or perhaps, I should say Dave's father's sleeve." He held up a scrap of navy blue fabric with a badge attached. There was lettering around the edge of the badge, but it was torn so that only partial letters remained.

"Is that about the size of it?" he asked the wolf. Dief barked twice and wagged his tail. "Well done."

Ray shook his head, woefully. "You can get shot over a parking space in this city, so why am I surprised bullets were fired over a bottle of maple syrup ..."

Fraser looked troubled. "It wasn't until I identified myself as RCMP that they actually started shooting at me. They became quite agitated."

Ray frowned, ticking off points on his fingers. "So, we're looking for a young guy named Dave with a rip in his coat; his buddy, Al, who likes to shoot at Mounties; and a mean s.o.b. who drives a souped-up dark Camaro classic. " He looked at Fraser. "Anything else?"

"Not much. I couldn't see their faces, as they were silhouetted by the headlights. Average heights and builds, shoe sizes ranging from 9 to 11, judging by the footprints they left in the syrup. At least, Dave and Al. I couldn't see the driver a 'tall." He closed his eyes, concentrating. "But, all three are local. From Chicago, I mean." At Ray's upraised eyebrows, he explained, "They spoke with Chicago accents."

"Accent? Accent?" Ray shot back. "Wwe don't have no stinkin' accent." At Fraser's skeptical look, he said, "You're the one with the accent, Mr. Uh-Tall."

"I don't say that," he protested.

"Yeah, you do." Ray glanced at his watch. "Well, the bad guys won't be back here, tonight. Or ever." He heard a lapping noise and looked down. Dief was slurping up maple syrup, motor oil and cat pee like there was no tomorrow till Fraser stopped him. That reminded Ray that it was a long time since lunch. He gestured with his thumb to the diner. "I see from my shed-u-al that it is a-boot time for a meal. How a-boot some pancakes, eh?"

"Hoser," Fraser said, under his breath. Dief growled in agreement.


	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

Fraser waited patiently, gazing out the window as the sun set behind a steel and glass skyscraper, its rays making the building look as if it were ablaze. He held his breath. Even in this city of crowded skyline and busy streets, there was unexpected beauty that touched the heart. He watched as the colors flowed from flaming reds to golden-pinks. As he brought his attention back into the room and to its other occupant, he saw the halo effect formed behind Inspector Thatcher, as she sat at her desk. Her oval face, its contours softened by the play of light, reminded him suddenly of a Rafael Madonna.

The effect was ruined when she hung up the phone with a bang. "Idiots!" she said, then looked up sharply at her junior officer.

"Yes?"

"Visas ready for signature, sir." He handed her a neat stack of papers, clipped and sorted. She signed each in turn and handed them back to him without comment.

He proffered another file. "My analysis of the findings of the Joint Commission on Energy and Environment in the Midwestern Great Lakes region, as you requested," he said. Thatcher squinted at the first page, then looked up at him.

"Your conclusion, Fraser?"

"We should accept the energy protocols, but further testing is needed on the environmental impact studies, particularly as it relates to fish populations."

"I tend to agree. Very well. I will pass it on to Ottawa."

"The monthly administrative report," he said, handing over another file.

"Anything I should know?"

"I am recommending that we change pest control contractors. The quality of the service has declined markedly in recent months. I believe the firm may be overextended. I took the liberty of obtaining comparable estimates from three reputable alternatives in the event you wished to cancel the current service."

She took the file from him. "Your preference is marked?"

"Yes, sir."

"Anything else?"

"A request from the President of Northwestern University to attend an international forum on the Phase II integration of the NAFTA accords, and a second from the Chicago Area School District to participate in their annual World Cultures Day."

"Your thoughts?"

"I recommend your attendance at the first event, sir. The other attendees are officials at your level. Your calendar is clear." He handed over a file. "It's a high profile event. There is a formal reception following at the Four Seasons Hotel. Black tie."

"And the second?

Fraser handed her the last file. He hesitated a moment. "I recommend Constable Turnbull attend, sir."

"Turnbull is on report," she said, shortly. "You go."

"Yes, sir." He paused. "If I may, sir. World Cultures Day features a particular emphasis on the foods of the participating countries. While I would be honored to attend and represent our nation again, I must point out that Constable Turnbull is far more qualified in the culinary arts. I believe he would be better able to showcase the quality and variety of our national cuisine." He looked earnestly at her. "Permission to speak freely, sir?"

Thatcher nodded.

Fraser rubbed his thumb over his eyebrow. "There is a ... uh ... rivalry of sorts among the other cultural liaisons in the city, that, while it can be described as friendly competition, nonetheless involves some rather significant wagering." He paused. "Obviously, this does violate Illinois anti-gaming laws. However, the local authorities turn a blind eye inasmuch as it's in the spirit of international cooperation and cultural exchange and half the proceeds are donated to the school district." He added, "The Spanish Deputy Consul's paella has been reigning champion for the last several years."

Thatcher was interested. "How did we do last year?"

Fraser looked grieved. "Last place, sir."

"What was our dish?"

"Pemmican, sir."

Thatcher frowned. "Turnbull can do it. Dismissed." She pushed herself away from her desk and stood.

Fraser was still standing there.

"Something else, Constable?"

"Yes, sir." He stood stiffly at attention. "There is a problem ... or rather, a ... situation ... or, perhaps, circumstance is the better ..."

"Spit it out, Fraser." She glanced at her watch. "I have a dinner engagement."

"Yes, sir." He looked straight ahead, hands behind his back. "There is a mystery –"

"A mystery?" she countered. "About what?"

"Maple syrup."

"Maple syrup?"

"Yes, sir. Canadian maple syrup."

She sat back down. "Explain."

He covered the salient points. When he was finished, she frowned.

"So ... your 'mystery' is the appearance of premium Canadian maple syrup through black market channels here in Chicago when there is no concomitant disappearance of said Canadian maple syrup to account for it. "

"Succinctly stated, sir."

"And your basis for concluding that the maple syrup served at the Nobility Diner –"

"The Patrician Grill," Fraser corrected automatically.

"And your basis for concluding that the maple syrup served at the Patrician Grill is, in fact, the Quebecois Dark Reserve?"

"Taste," he said.

"Taste?"

"Yes, sir. I tasted it."

She looked at him, suspiciously. "Tell me, Constable. What is your experience with the Quebecois Dark Reserve before allegedly tasting it at the Patrician Grill?"

"I tasted it once before, sir. When you ... uh ... 'imported' a supply for the Deputy Assistant for North American Trade Relations."

She fixed him with a steely gaze. "Can your conclusion be independently verified?"

"Not at this time, sir. I was initially able to obtain a sample from the Patrician Grill. However, that sample was ... lost ... before it could be analyzed. And, according to the proprietor, there is none remaining. The syrup from the alley last night could not be collected, and was probably too contaminated for sampling, regardless."

"And why are you telling me all this?"

Fraser blinked. "As my superior officer, I thought you should be informed of these developments."

"Very well. I am informed." She stood up again.

Fraser was still standing there.

"What?"

"Sir, I would like to pursue a line of inquiry, but thought it best to obtain your permission before proceeding."

She looked at him, expectantly.

He cleared his throat. "As I am sure you are aware, sir, the vast majority of the world's supply of maple syrup is produced in Quebec."

"Of course."

"And most of that is cached in the province with the Federation of Quebec Maple Syrup Producers."

She narrowed her eyes. "You mean, the Global Strategic Maple Syrup Reserve."

"That is the popular name, I believe, sir. But I prefer –"

"Don't go there, Fraser," she said, coldly.

"Sir?"

"Are you not about to suggest that you contact the Federation and inquire if they are missing any of their syrup, including the province's prize Dark Reserve?"

"Yes, sir. I was about to suggest that, sir."

She placed both her hands on her desk and leaned toward him. "Do you know how politically sensitive the subject of the Federation is?"

"Well, I –"

"It's highly controversial. The provincial government and a private organization in partnership to regulate the price and supply of a commodity?!" She fixed him with a steely eye. "The conservative factions call it a cartel and condemn it as a restraint of trade. Some of the more liberal factions want to eliminate the private federation and put it all under government control. The maple syrup producers are nearly split in two on the issue. People have come to blows!"

"I understand the rationale behind the regulations, sir. And the arguments against them. "

"Do you? Yet, you still want to ask the Federation if they're properly keeping track of the millions of gallons of maple syrup that have been entrusted to their keeping by government mandate, or worse, whether they're commandeering the private supply only to engage in American black market operations for personal gain?"

"I wouldn't have put it that way, exactly, sir," Fraser said, his face reddening.

"And, you want to open up this proverbial can of worms on the basis of your comparison of maple syrup at a local eatery against a one-time taste of the Reserve at this Consulate. A maple syrup, I might add, restricted to intra-provincial sale that I brought in via the diplomatic pouch." Her tone was positively glacial.

"Yes, sir. I mean, no sir. I mean –"

"Request denied." She flapped a hand at him, disgustedly. "Dismissed."

"Thank you, sir," Fraser said, turning smartly on his heel and exiting her office. He stood in the hallway for a long moment, collecting himself. Then, he heard the bells of St. Andrew's ring the hour. Moments later, Turnbull came through the front door, stamping his feet. His cheeks were red and his nose dripped. He looked oddly bulky from the layers of clothing he had on under the red serge. Like a sated tick, Fraser thought, looking over his shoulder.

He descended the stairs quickly, meeting Turnbull halfway. He grabbed his overpadded arm and steered him back down the stairs and into the kitchen. He gestured at the young officer to stay quiet, then returned to the hall. The Inspector flew down the stairs like an avenging Valkyrie, all resemblance to a Renaissance work of art obliterated. Fraser retrieved her coat from the hall closet and held it for her. She shouldered into it without a word, and stormed out the door, leaving a blast of frigid air in her wake.

Turnbull poked his head around the kitchen door. "Is it safe, sir?" Diefenbaker was right behind him, hiding behind his legs.

"Yes," he replied, distractedly, staring at the front door. "Oh," he turned to Turnbull, "the Inspector assigned you to represent Canada at World Cultures Day, Tuesday next."

His face lit up like the sun. "Really?"

"Yes."

"Am I still on report, sir?"

"Yes." At Turnbull's crestfallen face, he added, "Perhaps, she will reconsider if you carry out this new assignment with distinction."

"Yes, sir! I will!" He paused. "Uh, what is World Cultures Day, sir?"

"I'll get you the information. Suffice to say, you'll have to cook something representative of Canadian cuisine." He turned toward the stairs.

"What should I cook, sir?"

"Anything you'd like," he said, then added, "Except pemmican."

Turnbull made a face. "As if." Then, realizing who he was talking to, he added, "Although, I'm sure it's yummy, sir."

Fraser was lost in thought as he returned to his office. His plan to investigate the source of the black market Reserve and related syrups through the Federation was a non-starter. He had to admit that the political situation back home had never crossed his mind. He smiled, ruefully. Political correctness was not his strong suit. His exile in Chicago was proof of that. As the chief consular officer, the Inspector wasn't wrong to take political realities into consideration. She may have just saved him from a transfer to Baffin Island. Well, as appealing as such a prospect might be, Fraser would just have to come up with Plan B.

He opened his desk drawer and withdrew the scrap of navy blue nylon that Dief had snatched from 'Dave.' The patch, sewn on to the nylon fabric of a jacket, was an oval with lettering circling the edge in green, blue and red. Some parts of the letters were missing due to the tear; some were missing due to fraying on the surface of the badge. Age did that, he surmised, not Dief. He reached into the drawer again, removing a large magnifying glass. He sketched the outlines of the remaining letters on to a piece of paper and made several photocopies. Then, he experimentally filled in the torn parts of the letters to fit, alternately keeping and discarding his trials and errors. Finally, he was confident of his results. Some letters were still missing, due to the fraying, but he had a start:

" _EMPER PA S."

He smiled, appreciating the irony as he thought of the hours of study he had spent at Latin and Greek at his grandmother's insistence. It served him well as he filled in the blanks:

"SEMPER PARATUS."

(Translation: ALWAYS PREPARED.)

"Thank you, Gran," he whispered. He could almost hear her voice in reply, "You're welcome, Benton," then, the inevitable "I told you so."


	8. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

"So, you're looking for an overgrown Cub Scout?" Ray deftly sipped coffee in a cardboard cup, as he swerved around a trash truck.

"Not necessarily." Fraser gripped the dash with white knuckled fingers, as Ray swung back into his lane. The oncoming car blared its horn. "That's just one of many organizations that use the motto. It's also used by the British Parachute Regiment, many service clubs and schools." He paused. "And the U.S. Coast Guard, of course."

"Of course," Ray muttered, as he pulled up to the curb. "We're here."

A uniformed officer tried to wave him away until he recognized the detective, then waved him in. There were two units parked on the street and a barricade on the sidewalk to keep bystanders at bay.

"Oh, dear," Fraser said, as he surveyed the scene. He put a hand on the car door, then turned to the backseat. "Stay here," he told Dief. "There's broken glass." The wolf, who was curled up comfortably, nose to tail, made a noise of contented agreement. Fraser shook his head, dolefully. Granted it was cold today. For Chicago. Ray was bundled up with hat, gloves and two scarves. But Dief was an Arctic wolf, for goodness sake! Fraser made a mental note to institute a winter exercise regimen. They would both benefit. He looked speculatively at Ray. Perhaps, his friend would like to join them for an early morning run. Ray wound his long woolen scarf round and round his neck until only his nose and eyes were visible. Then again, Fraser thought, perhaps not. He got out of the car and followed Ray.

The electronics store was a mess. Someone had driven a vehicle up over the curb and smashed through the front door. There was glass everywhere. An inquisitive crowd had gathered outside the barricades, trying to peer around the uniformed officer that was restraining them.

Another uniform met them inside. Ray noted that the inside temperature of the store was as cold as the outside. The cop had a notebook out and filled them in quickly. A white panel van had rammed through the glass storefront thirty minutes ago. Three armed men in ski masks had jumped out while a fourth, the driver, remained in the vehicle. Two of them had quickly and efficiently loaded high-end electronics, still in the boxes, while the third held a gun on the owner, his two employees and a lone customer. Then they were gone, speeding away a couple of minutes before the first patrol car made the scene.

Four people huddled in coats in the center of the chilly store - an old man, a younger man and woman, and slightly apart, a teen boy. The group clustered together were the owner and his two adult children. The boy was the customer.

Ray talked to the owner, while Fraser examined the entry point. He motioned to Fraser to join him.

"There's a tape of the security feed in the back," he said.

In the small office at the rear of the store, they watched the grainy black and white tape. One camera, wide-angle lens. It showed a dim view of the showroom. They watched as the employees readied the store for business. The room brightened as sunlight streamed in. The teenager walked in and went to a display of cell phones. Suddenly, a small panel truck barreled into the frame. The time on the tape showed 10:02 am. It was an eerie scene as mayhem erupted, people screaming, glass flying, masked villains. All without sound. Four individuals. The driver stayed behind the wheel; three other men got out of the truck. One held a gun on the occupants of the store. The other two moved fast, loading boxes quickly and calmly with a handtruck, even emptying a closet. When it was done, the gunman brandished the weapon, and the three men got back in the vehicle. The truck backed out and disappeared from the frame.

They played the tape through twice. Fraser made notes in his pad. "Very efficient," he commented. "From start to finish, the crime took 6.5 minutes."

"Ballsy," Ray said. He turned to the owner. "Mr. Patel, when did you open?"

"Ten o'clock, precisely," the old man said, wringing his hands. "As usual."

"Do you use steel security shutters?"

"Of course. We bring them down when we close at night, and put them up when we open in the morning."

Ray nodded. That explained the sudden brightening of the scene in the video just before impact. "Otherwise, they would never have gotten through, even with the truck."

A young woman poked her head into the door of the office. "Father?" She looked at Ray and Fraser. "May I come in?"

Patel introduced his daughter, Shia. Ray instructed them on reporting to the insurance company, boarding up the broken glass, and other details. He gave them a receipt for the videotape.

"We'll need a list of the stolen items, as soon as possible," he said to her.

She extracted a pink piece of paper from a drawer, made a copy, and gave him the original. "Here you go."

Ray looked at the delivery ticket and then looked a question back at her.

"We took delivery late last night," she explained. "We didn't even have a chance to price anything before ... " She stopped to compose herself. "They took it all, still in the boxes."

"Better resale value that way," he said, sympathetically. "Deliveries in the rear?" She nodded. "Did you notice anybody hanging around last night? Anything unusual or out of place?"

She thought a moment. "No," she said. "There was no one."

"Is a late night delivery usual with your supplier?" Fraser asked, taking a look at the delivery ticket before giving it back to Ray.

"This was our first transaction with this company." She frowned. "Our other suppliers always delivered during the day." She shrugged. "We prefer after hours delivery as it doesn't interfere with the customers, but the others would never do it because it incurred overtime." She sighed. "That's one reason we switched."

"What was the other reason?" Fraser asked.

"Price."

"Forty years in business in this country, and I have never been robbed," Mr. Patel said, his voice trembling. "And this ... this ... violation!' He was on the verge of tears.

Fraser put a hand under his elbow and guided him to a chair. He got him a paper cup of water from the water cooler in the corner and urged him to sip it slowly. He knelt beside the chair. "Fortunately, Mr. Patel, no one was hurt. That is truly the most important thing." The old man nodded. "And, I can assure you, sir, that the Chicago Police Department will do its best to find the perpetrators and bring them to justice."

Mr. Patel shook his head. "What can you do? One cannot tell who these men are."

"On the contrary, sir. Detective Vecchio and I have already unearthed several important clues." He raised his eyebrows meaningfully at Ray.

"Uh, that's right." Ray cleared his throat and spoke more firmly. "Many, many clues."

Mr. Patel gave them a watery smile. "But, I am just one small shop. And, this is just one small case. I know how these things work – "

"There is no such thing as a small case," Fraser said, firmly.

"He really means that," Ray confirmed. At Mr. Patel's skeptical look, he said, "Seriously."

The old man stared into Fraser's eyes for a long moment, then nodded. "Thank you," he said to Fraser. Then, up at Ray. "Thank you, both."

They left Shia attending to the old man and returned to the showroom. Fraser examined the room while Ray took a look at the loading dock and alley. No camera, but the security for this place was pretty tight. He flicked a light switch and nodded approvingly as the alley and loading dock lights came on. It would have been well-lit last night. Difficult to case the joint back here without being seen. Steel bars on the windows, heavy duty locks on all the doors, and a good, solid alarm system were all in place

When he rejoined Fraser, he found the Mountie down on his hands and knees examining the carpet. To Ray's intense relief, he didn't lick anything. Then, he was up on his knees, studying a wall. He ran his hands over the surface, pressing here and there.

After a moment, young Mr. Patel came over. His name was Raj. He reached over Fraser's shoulder and pressed a spot on the wall. There was a click and a door opened. Fraser stood up and out of the way.

Raj swung the door wide to reveal a deep, but empty, storage space. "We kept the pricier items in here," he said, bitterly.

"Were they delivered last night, too?" Fraser asked.

"Yeah, most of the stuff in here was. Inventory was down after the Christmas season."

"Raj," Shia called from the office. "Where is the file on the insurance company?"

Raj excused himself and disappeared into the back office.

Ray told Fraser about his examination of the loading dock. "Shia's right. I don't think they could have watched the delivery from the back without being seen themselves." He and Fraser took a last look around before climbing back in to the Riv. Dief opened one eye, then went back to sleep.

"I feel for that old man," Ray said, sadly. He turned on the ignition and let the engine warm up.

"Me, too."

He faced Fraser, with a sour expression. "So, we have unearthed several important clues, huh?"

"I'm sorry, Ray," he said, contritely. "I know you don't like to prematurely divulge information in the course of an investigation, but I thought Mr. Patel was in need of reassurance."

He sighed. "I just don't like giving an old man false hope, Benny."

"False?" he said, surprised. "What's false about it?"

"We don't have a clue where to begin!"

"On the contrary, Ray," he replied. "I suggest we start at 15998 Deerborn Street. A gentleman named Jim. Last name begins with a 'T' or possibly an 'F'"

"Huh?"

"According to the delivery ticket, that's the address of the new supplier that delivered the goods here last night."

"So?"

"A supplier who delivers at night and is cheaper than its competitors."

"Probably 'cause they're not using union drivers."

"Perhaps. But the Patels received a large delivery only last night. A late night delivery that could not be observed from the street as the security shutters were down. Nor did it appear to be observed from the rear alley."

"O-kay."

"Yet, the robbery occurred the very next morning after such a large delivery. Brand-new merchandise, still in the boxes. A veritable windfall for the thieves. Coincidence?

Ray looked thoughtful. "Go on."

"Also, the thieves were familiar with the routine, when the store opened, that the metal security shutters were raised precisely at 10 am, that -"

"Anybody casing the joint would have seen that."

"True. Still, the vehicle they used was precisely the size needed to haul all the items from yesterday's delivery; they brought a handtruck with them; they were experienced at loading large, heavy boxes quickly and efficiently."

"They could be experienced thieves, Benny."

"Granted. But they also knew there was a concealed closet that held the most expensive items and exactly how to open it. It was a tricky mechanism to operate, as you saw."

Ray was getting excited in spite of himself. "Still, there could be a lot of people who know about that closet. Including, anybody that's ever delivered there before. Or worked there."

"I agree."

He looked at him, recognizing that tone. Fraser had an ace up his red serge sleeve. "So, why these guys?"

"On the videotape, the panel truck appeared to be plain white, no lettering or other markings, right?"

"Right."

"Except for the side panel on the driver side. That was just barely in the frame." He flipped his notebook open. "This mark was on the side of the truck."

"It's a squiggle," Ray said, squinting. "Could be just a flaw in the tape."

"Give me the delivery slip." Ray handed it over. There was a logo at the top of the page. A stylized little devil with horns, tail and a pitchfork. Fraser held the paper close to the mark he had sketched, then covered over most of the logo with his fingers, leaving one of the devil's horns exposed. The squiggles were the same on both pieces of paper.

"Damn!" Ray said, putting the car into gear and pulling away from the curb. "So, they used a magnetic cover to obscure the logo on the truck. And it slipped. Probably, when they plowed through the storefront." He grinned. "Deerborn Street?"

"Number 15998."

"Like I said, ballsy," he said. "Sell the merchandise, steal it back, and use your own truck to do it! No wonder their prices are lower. Reminds me of Billy Bob's place." He paused. "Let me guess. Jim T. signed the delivery ticket yesterday?"

Fraser squinted at the paper. "Could be an 'F,' or maybe a 'P.'"

It was a "P." Within five minutes of being questioned, Jim Petersen had rolled over on his three accomplices and the owner of Speed Demon Electronics and Appliances.

Later that day, Fraser and Ray were at the latter's desk, munching on home-made pappadums. The Indian treats had been delivered piping hot, courtesy of Mrs. Patel. The file on the "Drive-Through Robbery," as Ray had dubbed it, complete with four signed confessions, was sitting on Welsh's desk for the State's Attorney's review, practically gift-wrapped and tied with a bow.

Ray had his feet up on the desk and his hands behind his head. "You don't get many days like today, Benny."

Fraser, mouth full, nodded in agreement.

"Toss me another one." Ray caught the pappadum and took a bite. "So, who else uses _Semper Paratus _besides the Girl Scouts?"

"You mean Cub Scouts, Ray," Fraser corrected automatically. "The British Parachute Regiment. The US Coast Guard. And many other service organizations, clubs and schools."

Ray chewed and swallowed. "I'd go with the Coast Guard. Considering, you know, the Lake."

"I agree." He frowned, recalling yesterday's conversation with Inspector Thatcher. "But, I think my inquiry should be unofficial."

"No problemo," Ray said. He reached into his desk drawer and extracted his address book. He licked a finger and flicked pages. "P... Palermo ... Palumbo ... Poloczek ... Pulaski!" He dialed a number from the book. "Lieutenant Commander Pulaski. Detecive Vecchio, Chicago P.D. Yes, I'll hold." He covered the mouthpiece and spoke to Fraser. "Billy and me played – Billy! You old so and so. Yeah, I know, I know. Too long! How the hell are you?" He gave Fraser a thumbs up, then talked old times into the phone. "Ma's fine. Frannie's fine. Everybody's fine. How's the wife? Aw, congratulations, buddy! When's the due date?" The conversation continued for several minutes in that vein.

Fraser felt a nudge against his knee. He looked down into Diefenbaker's hopeful face. He licked his chops. "One," he said and slipped him a pappadum. "Make it las–" It was gone in one gulp. He looked expectantly up at him. "No means 'no,'" he said, firmly. Dief grumble-growled in complaint, but settled down on Ray's side of the desk.

"OK, Bill. Lemme see." Ray covered the mouthpiece again. "You're off tomorrow, right?"

"Yes."

"Alright, Bill. See you then. Thanks," Ray said, then hung up the phone. He was smiling to himself.

"Ray?"

He gestured at the phone. "We go way back, Billy and me." He reached for a pappadum. "He joined the Coast Guard right after graduation. Last few years, he's been stationed at Waukegan." He took a bite and chewed. "I'll pick you up at eight tomorrow morning." Dief whined at his feet. Ray absently reached down and handed him the remains of the pappadum.

Fraser stifled the protest that sprang automatically to his lips. He'd give Dief a stern talking to, later. "That's great, Ray. Thanks." He paused. "But I thought you were working tomorrow?"

Ray spread his arms in an expansive gesture. "I can afford to take a day off after today," he said, reaching for another treat. "Besides," he said, lowering his voice, "it's ITJF business."

"You mean, I-J-" Fraser began, about to correct the misplaced initials, then stopped. "Never mind. You're right, Ray. You don't get many days like this one." He put his booted feet up on the desk, placed his hands behind his head, and leaned back, tentatively. He struggled with the uncharacteristic position, nearly lost his balance, knocked Ray's stack of files askew which tipped the plate of pappadums. A couple of the dumplings fell to the floor.

"Sorry, Ray," he said, as he rushed to set things right atop the desk. When he bent over to retrieve the spilled food, it was gone. On the other side of the desk, Dief gave him an innocent look and settled his head on his front paws.

"Relax, Benny," Ray said, amused. "You don't have to relax."

"Oh, good," he said, in relief. He settled in the straight-backed chair, feet on the floor, and popped a pappadum in his mouth.


	9. Chapter 9

**CHAPTER NINE**

Ray reached over and turned up the heat. He huddled in the passenger seat of the Riv, trying to warm his mittened hands with a steaming cup of coffee without spilling it on himself or the upholstery. He was dressed in his warmest clothes, including the ridiculously bright ski jacket he had bought for his first trip to the Yukon. His nose dripped, his eyes watered, his cheeks stung, and he was still shivering despite the fact that they had been off that damned boat for twenty minutes.

Fraser had both hands on the wheel at the 10 and 2 o'clock positions. He was fastidiously keeping the vehicle at the posted speed limit. His cheeks were ruddy, his eyes sparkled, his hair was charmingly windblown. He positively glowed.

Ray hated him.

They were heading down I-94, back to Chicago, being passed by every car and truck on the road, including right now, another old man in a hat.

"W-will you s-step on it, B-benny!" Ray chattered.

"I'm at the speed limit," he replied, checking the dash. "Whoops." He was over by a couple of miles. He eased up on the accelerator. A horn blared as a semi barreled past.

"It's mph, not kph," Ray said, sourly.

"But, I am –" he began, then realized Ray was being sarcastic. He let it go without further comment. He did look truly miserable. Fraser reached to crank up the heater again, even though the temperature in the car was stifling.

"I want to thank you for today, Ray," he began.

Ray grunted.

There was a yip from the back seat. Fraser met Dief's eyes in the rearview mirror. "Both of us do." He smiled. "That was great. Truly. It felt like ... " he paused, looking for the right word, then found it. "Home." Dief woofed in agreement.

Earlier, Ray had picked him up outside his apartment promptly at eight in the morning. Though it was a sunny day, it was cold. Eighteen degrees, according to the radio. In keeping with the off-the-record investigation, Fraser was dressed casually, in jeans, turtleneck and his buffalo plaid jacket. Dief, of course, wore nothing but a smile. The driving was slow-going until they got away from the city rush hour. Then, it had been a smooth hour up the interstate to the US Coast Guard Station at Waukegan, on the southwestern shore of the Lake.

Policing Lake Michigan was complex. Every city cop knew that the Coast Guard was the primary law enforcement agency on the Lake, though, of course, there was spillover with the feds, staties and various locals. Since the Lake was bordered by Michigan, Wisconsin and Indiana as well as Illinois, four state police forces were in play. Ray knew, in the abstract, that the Coast Guard also policed the other Great Lakes. But since Lake Michigan was unique in that it was wholly contained in the US, he had never thought about the international implications of the greater Great Lakes Region. But, Fraser had.

"Oh, yes, Ray," he explained, enthusiastically. "The border between our two countries runs right through the other four Great Lakes and the St. Laurence Seaway."

"So ... what?" he asked. "You guys have your own Coast Guard policing your side of the water?"

"Well, yes and no. We have a Coast Guard, but its law enforcement responsibilities are limited. Mostly, they deal with vessel registry, search and rescue and environmental issues, not traditional law enforcement."

Ray knew that Canadian bureaucracy was as complicated or more so than its US counterpart. Or maybe it just seemed that way to him. He never quite got what the First Nations was about. "Who does, then?"

"We do," he replied, patting his chest. "The Mounties."

"I didn't know horses could swim," Ray quipped.

"Actually, they're quite good swimmers," Fraser said. "But, we use boats."

"You ever been stationed on the Lakes?"

"No." He thought a moment. "When I was in Moosejaw, I had a case that intersected with the RCMP post at Thunder Bay." He cast his mind back. "Drug smugglers bringing in PCP across the Lake they call Superior, then over the Trans-Canadian Highway."

"Lake Superior," Ray corrected automatically.

"Right, the Lake they call Superior," he repeated.

"You mean, Lake –" he waved his hand. "Never mind. Did you get your man?"

"Women, actually." At Ray's questioning look, he explained, "They were an all-female band, playing bars and clubs as a front, but distributing the drugs as their primary enterprise."

"Were they any good?"

"Well, no one is beyond redemption, Ray."

He shook his head, impatiently. "I meant their music."

He thought about it. "Yes."

"For Moosejaw," he sniffed.

"Actually, Ray, the quality of the arts in Canada, being supported in large part, by the government ..."

Ray tuned out and didn't tune back in until –

"... the Tuktoyaktuk Opera and Canning Company's performance of 'The Snow Queen' on the actual tundra. It was breathtak –"

"Here we are," Ray sang out. "North Harbor Place." As they approached the waterfront, he added, "You'll like Billy. He's a real stand-up guy. Just don't mention the All-City Championship game. That always sets him off."

"I won't," Fraser promised.

They parked the car. Though still sunny, it was even colder here than in Chicago, with a stiff breeze coming off the water. Flags arrayed around the grounds snapped loudly in the wind. Fraser and Dief stood at the edge of the parking lot, inhaling deeply, as they looked out over the sparkling water of the Lake.

The Coast Guard station consisted of a low-slung brick building containing the administration offices, several outbuildings, the docks with boats of varying sizes, and a small hangar housing a helicopter. The facilities had a shuttered look. Ray had explained that the station was most active from March to October, when recreational use of the Lake was at its peak. In the winter months, the Coast Guard primarily patrolled commercial shipping and policed the year-round threat of drug smuggling, illegal immigration, and toxic dumping.

Ray hustled Fraser and Dief ahead of him to the entrance and the promise of warmth inside. They checked in at the front desk, and were immediately escorted by a young woman in uniform to the office of Lieutenant Commander William Pulaski.

A tall, hearty man in a crisp uniform sat behind a large cluttered desk. He moved to greet them. "Ray!" he exclaimed, "Ray Vecchio!" enfolding him in a bear hug. "Damn glad to see you, buddy!" They pounded each other on the back for a few minutes.

Ray said, "Bill, this is my partner, Constable Benton Fraser, RCMP. Benny, Lieutenant Commander Bill Pulaski, USCG."

He extended his hand, "Lieutenant Commander."

"Call me Bill," Pulaski said, engulfing Fraser's hand in his large one.

"Ben," he offered. "And this is Diefenbaker." Dief woofed politely.

"What a fine animal!" he proclaimed. He reached down and petted Dief's head. "Part wolf there, I think?"

Dief basked in his admiration and grinned up at him.

"Yes," Fraser acknowledged. "I've never been sure which part."

They sat in Bill's office, enjoying coffee and donuts, while he and Ray caught up on old times. Fraser made a mental note to run Dief twice around the usual circuit tomorrow morning in light of the three donuts slipped to him by the commander.

"Well, it's great to see you, Ray," Bill began, "but I'm sure you didn't come all the way up here just to catch up." He looked shrewdly at Fraser. "And I'm sure there's a story about how a Chicago cop and a Mountie are partners." He checked his watch. "But, I'm on a tight schedule." He looked expectantly at Ray.

"It's your show, Benny."

Fraser reached into an inner pocket. He unfolded his handkerchief revealing the ripped patch from Dave's dad's jacket. He passed it to Pulaski.

"Bill, can you tell me anything about this?"

He raised an eyebrow, "Where did you get it?"

"In Chicago."

He rolled his eyes. "What I mean, Ben, was it in connection with criminal activity?"

Fraser looked earnestly at him. "At this point, I have no evidence that a crime was committed by the individual who was wearing that patch. I am not at liberty to say more. Except, that the circumstances were ... dubious."

Pulaski laughed. "Dubious?! I love that. It means nothing, but says a lot." He looked at Ray. "He talk like that all the time?"

"Actually, he's loosened up," Ray said.

Pulaski gave Fraser a piercing look. "I hate to see one of our own involved in 'dubious circumstances.'"

"I understand, Bill," he said. "I have no reason to believe that a member of your service has any involvement; it may be a family connection. Or no connection at all."

"Grasping at straws there, are ya, Ben?"

"As you say."

He studied Fraser's face for a long moment, glanced at Ray. He stood, handing the patch back. "Come with me." He led them to a large conference room, furnished with a long table and a dozen chairs. The American and Coast Guard flags stood in the two front corners of the room. Each wall was decorated with large glass-fronted frames. Bill went to the far wall. As Ray approached, he saw it was a display of patches, mounted on a white background. Each patch had a hand-lettered description under it.

Bill pointed to the patches. "Courtesy of our local Boy Scout troop. Some young man's Eagle Scout project. These patches are not part of the official uniform," he explained. "But most detachments have their own unique design. You can collect them, you see. Sew 'em on jackets or shirts or hats, or display them like this."

Ray nodded. "Yeah, we do the same. Some guys I know collect patches from law enforcement all over the country."

Bill continued. "I don't recognize Ben's patch specifically, but it could be one of ours." Ray peered up at the display. He spotted several Semper Paratus mottos in a variety of colors, shapes and designs, along with many other emblems, symbols and phrases. There were a helluva lot of patches in just this one frame.

Bill noticed his surprise and said, "There are over 50 main Coast Guard Stations on the Great Lakes. Sector Lake Michigan has 22 subordinate field units alone."

Ray exchanged glances with Fraser. "I'll start with this one," he said, pointing at the display. "Lemme see that patch again." He studied it carefully, then started a methodical search, his eyes moving left to right. Fraser did the same on another display, as Bill took a third. Ray did not find a match. As he turned to report his failure, Diefenbaker woofed. He turned, to see the wolf staring at the display on the fourth wall. He sat on his haunches, his nose pointing upwards with unmistakable meaning. Fraser hurried to him.

"Find something, boy?" He spotted the patch. "Ray, Bill," he called. They joined him, Bill looking skeptically at Dief. Fraser pointed to a patch on the right near the top. "This one has the motto, same style of script, the same colors in the background and in the stitching of the letters, the same oval shape," he began. "But, my patch does not have the lighthouse in the center."

Ray squinted up at it. "That's the Calumet Light," he said. "I recognize it." He read the placard beneath the patch. "Station Calumet Harbor."

Fraser looked at the patch in his hand. "Everything is the same, except for the lighthouse motif." He looked at the other men. "Did you find anything on the other displays?" They answered in the negative.

Bill gestured to the frayed torn patch in Fraser's hand. "That might be an older version. They get redesigned from time to time."

"Is there a compendium of the various patches and the detachments they represent?" Fraser asked.

"Not to my knowledge. These are strictly unofficial." Bill looked thoughtful. "My former commander was stationed at Calumet Harbor for years. He passed away a few years back. But his wife ran the social end of his command. You know the type - organized everything – the dinners, the clambakes, the pancake breakfasts, did the newsletter, and so on." He shook his head in admiration. "Incredible woman. She might be able to tell you if that was a Calumet patch."

"She still around?" Ray asked.

"Got a card from her last Christmas." He shepherded them back to his office and flipped through a giant Rolodex. "Here she is. Helen Barrowman." He looked up. "You know, I was transferred out of Calumet years ago, but I still get a card every Christmas. Everybody does." He jotted down the contact information and handed it to Fraser.

"Thank you, kindly."

"You're welcome, uh, kindly," he replied. "Gentlemen, this has been a pleasure. But I have duties." He paused, looking at Fraser. "Unless, you would care to see how things are done south of the border, Constable? You boys wanna go on an RLP?"

"Say, what?" Ray asked. Every service loved its anagrams.

"Random Lake Patrol. Takes us about three hours to cover our grid."

Fraser hesitated. "I don't wish to take up any more of your valuable time, Bill."

"You wouldn't be. Frankly, I'm proud of our work here. Wouldn't mind showing it off." He grinned. "Especially, to a Canuck."

Fraser turned to Ray, looking a question. He looked back at him, about to decline. He was not fond of boats in warm weather. And there were things he should do back in the city. Then, he discerned the eagerness carefully concealed behind Fraser's neutral expression.

"If you want to freeze your ass off, Benny, be my guest," he said, magnanimously. What the hell, he'd have another coffee and read a magazine till they got back.

"You can wait in my office where it's nice and toasty, Ray-mond," Bill said, drawing out the name.

Instantly, Ray was transported back in time to junior year. The teenage rivalry that had been at the core of their friendship rose to the fore. "Hey, I'm coming along, if only to back you up, Billy-boy. Just like I did when you missed that shot in the All-City game."

Bill poked a finger at his chest. "I'd have made that shot if you only ..."

The argument continued in this vein until Ray found himself strapped into a bright orange flotation vest on the forty-five foot speedboat named "Lady of the Lake." Bill introduced them to his crew of five, two women and three men. The men were quite taken with Diefenbaker; the women with Fraser.

Ray was impressed with the armaments on the boat. Machine guns were mounted on the bow and each crewman was equipped with a Sig Sauer sidearm. Once they were in the channel, Bill opened her up. The vessel had twin diesel turbo engines. Her speed was impressive, 40 knots according to the young crewman standing next to Ray. Within ten minutes, he was huddled on the bridge, surreptitiously trying to shelter behind the windscreen from the relentless buffeting of the wind. He looked up with streaming eyes to see Fraser and Dief standing straight and tall on the foredeck. The wind whipped through Fraser's hair and his coattail flapped like a flag. He didn't look cold at all. Despite the bulky orange life vest, he looked ... majestic, like a masthead on the prow of a ship. He reached down occasionally to rub Dief's ears.

It was bitter. The crew took turns on deck, alternating with warm-up time in the tiny wardroom below. Bill resolutely stood his post at the helm, even though his anxious second officer offered to relieve him several times. Other than a trip to the head that Ray extended as long as he credibly could, he endured the wind and the cold on deck. Even though he recognized that they had slipped back into the juvenile one-upmanship of their high school years, Ray couldn't stop himself. He'd freeze his balls off before he'd admit defeat and slink belowdecks. He realized, after the second hour, that the prospect was a literal possibility. He gritted his teeth, hunkered down, and thought of Miami.

There was little traffic on that sector of the Lake, all of it commercial ore shipping. They checked a couple of vessel registries by radio and boarded one small freighter, without incident. Ray equated these activities to that of a traffic cop. At one point, he heard a crewman call "Iceberg, port bow." He looked left and there was, indeed, a small mountain of ice. In fact, there was a lot of floating ice out here. Bill slowed down which helped with the windchill. A crewman brought up hot cups of coffee. Ray's teeth were chattering. He succeeded in spilling just as much of the drink as he was able to get down. He had a small measure of satisfaction when he saw Bill doing the same.

Finally, blessedly, they returned to the dock at the Station. Ray was pleased to see that Bill's red cheeks, dripping nose and chattering teeth matched his own. Their eyes met and they laughed good-naturedly at their own stupidity. Ray promised to come again, but next time, in summer. Fraser had been effusive (for Fraser) in his thanks to Bill. And they were on their way back to the car. Once they were out of sight, Ray tossed Fraser the keys. He was too cold to drive and too miserable to fret about Fraser's driving. He grabbed the blanket he kept in the trunk and wrapped it around his shoulders.

It was forty minutes later and Ray was finally warm. He was thinking that this Joint Task Force business was not all it was cracked up to be when a little old lady in a faded Chevy pulled past them, laid on the horn, and gave them the finger.

"That's it! Pull over!"

"I can't, Ray."

"Yes, you can. Up there," he pointed. "Pull over."

"That's for emergency stopping only," Fraser said, pointing out the sign as he passed the pull-off.

"This is an emergency!"

"What is?"

"Trust me, an octogenarian flipping us the bird constitutes a roadside emergency! Now, pull over!"

"I will, Ray," he said, "there's a rest stop just ahead." He continued to drive over Ray's continued objections, assuring him calmly that yes, he would indeed stop; in just a moment, Ray; the rest stop is just over the hill, Ray_; _and so on. Finally, just as he was about to burst a blood vessel, Fraser pulled off, parked, and handed him the keys. "See, it was only a few miles ahead."

Ray took the keys, without a word.

Fraser looked uncertain. "I need to use the facilities, Ray." A woof from the back. "So does Dief," he added. "We'll be back in two shakes of a lamb's tail." He opened the car door, then looked back at Ray, who hadn't moved. "O-kay then. Dief?" He let the wolf out of the car and walked with him to the grassy area in the trees set aside for pets.

Ray got out of the passenger side, slammed the door, walked around and got behind the wheel. There was a long silence then Fraser heard the engine turn over. He looked up when he heard the squeal of tires. The Riviera sped toward the exit. Dief, under a tree, looked at the disappearing car, then back at Fraser. He whimpered.

"He'll be back," Fraser assured him.

The wolf whined.

"Oh, don't be a baby! It's only thirty miles to Chicago." He looked down at the wolf. "Gives you a chance to work off those donuts." Once Dief had finished his business, Fraser went into the mens room. As he was washing up at the sink, Ray came in. He went into a stall and slammed the door.

Fraser and Dief waited outside. When Ray came out, he pointed at Fraser. "Not a word."

"Understood."

Dief grumble-growled.

"You too!"

Dief shut up.

They piled into the car. Ray started the engine, put it in gear, and sped away. He cranked up the radio and put the pedal to the metal all the way home. Fraser never said a word. Somewhere outside Northbrook, the Mamas and the Papas were California dreaming. Ray cast a sidewise look at Fraser, then launched in. As they passed the little old lady in the Chevy, they were singing the chorus, Dief hitting the high notes.


	10. Chapter 10

**CHAPTER TEN**

The next few days were busy for Fraser and Ray.

A Canadian citizen visiting Chicago with his wife had a heart attack the day they were to fly home to Calgary. He required serious cardiac surgery and significant recovery time before he would be able to travel. His wife, distraught at her husband's illness so far from home, needed help. They were alone in the city. Their only child was a sergeant in the army, currently stationed in Bosnia. Not knowing where else to turn, the social worker at the University hospital called the Consulate.

Inspector Thatcher assigned the case to Fraser. He met Mrs. Conroy at the hospital. Mr. Conroy was in Intensive Care, and her visiting time with him was limited to a few minutes several times a day. She was reluctant to leave the building, in the event that there was a downturn in his fragile condition. But, there was much to be done.

Fraser took charge. With her consent, he packed their belongings and checked them out of their hotel, moving their things to a new hotel adjoining the hospital which catered exclusively to the families of patients. He requested and obtained the Inspector's approval to dip into the travelers emergency fund for the cost of the stay. He went through channels with the Army and broke the news of her father's illness to Sergeant Melanie Conroy, assisting on his end with her compassionate leave. He cut through the red tape on the coverage of medical treatment for a foreign national in an American hospital. He arranged for a neighbor back home to check on their house, deal with their mail, extend their dog's stay at the kennel, and other details of keeping their home lives intact. He coaxed Mrs. Conroy to eat, and insisted that she rest. But mostly, he sat with her in the little waiting room in ICU.

On the third day of his assignment, Mr. Conroy underwent his surgery. It was a difficult day. The surgery took far longer than anticipated. He waited with Mrs. Conroy in the surgical waiting room. She spoke from time to time about their daughter, their dog, their travels, their lives together. Her fear of losing her husband of forty years remained unspoken. When her silences grew long, Fraser told her stories of his and Diefenbaker's travails in the big city. She liked to hear about Dief, and he promised to introduce them.

They were sitting in the waiting room when there was a noise at the door.

"Mom?"

Mrs. Conroy looked up. As she took in the sight of her daughter, clad in fatigues and holding a duffel, her face was transformed. Fraser helped her to her feet, then averted his eyes as mother and daughter embraced fiercely. The tears that Mrs. Conroy had held at bay during the ordeal were released at last. It was a supremely private moment that belonged to them alone. He felt like an intruder. He picked up his hat and coat and walked quietly to the door.

"Wait!" the sergeant called. "Officer, please wait!"

He stopped and turned. The young woman released her mother, who was starting to regain her composure. The soldier took a step toward him and held out her hand. Fraser took it. She grasped it firmly and held on. Tears glistened on her cheeks and eyelashes, but she didn't wipe them away.

"Thank you, sir," she said, looking into his eyes, "For watching over them."

He ducked his head. "That's not necessary, Sergeant. I was just doing my duty."

She smiled, releasing his hand. "Thank you, all the same."

Mrs. Conroy stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. "Thank you, Benton," she whispered. "I hope I do meet Diefenbaker one day."

He nodded, not trusting his voice. The surgeon came in then, weary, rumpled, but smiling broadly. Fraser took his leave with a lightened heart. He pushed the button to call the elevator, covering a yawn with a hand. It had been a long day. But, he was glad to be here. Here in this city. Here for this family. The elevator doors opened with a ping and he entered.

It was late when he returned to the Consulate. Turnbull was still there. He asked after the Conroys and was pleased to hear the news.

"The Inspector asked that you call her at home, sir. No matter the hour."

Fraser reached for the phone over the stack of correspondence, forms and other documents that had accumulated on his desk in the last three days.

She answered on the first ring. "Hello."

"It's Constable Fraser, sir. I'm sorry for calling so late."

"How is Mr. Conroy?"

"Stable. The surgery went well."

"Good," she said. "And Mrs. Conroy?

"Relieved, tired, happy to have her daughter here," he said. "The Sergeant arrived an hour ago."

"I'm glad," she replied. He heard the sincerity in her voice.

"Yes, sir." There was a pause. He couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Good work, Constable."

Fraser, caught off-guard by the compliment, hesitated. "Thank you -" He was talking to dead air. He replaced the phone in its cradle and leaned back in his chair. Turnbull stood at the open door, a tray in his hands.

"Tea, sir?"

At his nod, Turnbull set the tray on the desk. In addition to the tea accouterments, there were two thick roast beef sandwiches and a slice of cherry pie. His stomach rumbled. It had been many hours since he'd eaten. "Thank you," he said, gratefully.

Turnbull wished him good night, then left him to his meal. A few minutes later, he heard the heavy front door close as the young officer left for the night. He had the Consulate to himself. Or nearly. He looked up from his plate.

"Hello, Dad." He held the plate out. "Sandwich?"

"No, thanks, son," his father said, tugging at the Sam Browne at his waist. "I'm watching my weight."

Fraser opened his mouth to point out that his father was dead, so why bother, then stopped. Why bother? He picked up the first Form 1699-F from the stack on the left and began to complete it.

"Paperwork, eh? It never ends, son. Not even in the afterlife." He put his hat on his head. "I'll leave you to it, then."

"Stay," he said, looking up. "Keep me company."

The ghost of Robert Fraser looked startled, then took a seat. After a couple of hours, Fraser completed the last 1699-F and put it in his Out bin. His father was gone and so was the second sandwich.

He turned to the teetering stack of correspondence. The return address on the first letter was RCMP headquarters in Ottawa. It was addressed to him personally, marked PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL. He slit the envelope with the letter opener and read the contents. "Oh, dear," he said, to no one in particular. He looked at the calendar for a long time. Then, he stood, stretched, donned his hat and coat, and went downstairs. He pulled the front door behind him and locked it. A light snow fell as he walked home, but he didn't notice. His thoughts were racing, chasing themselves round and round.

Ray, too, had been busy at work. He had been corralled for half a day in a cramped interrogation room at the station with State's Attorney Louise St. Laurent prepping his testimony on a big extortion case. Though his relationship with Louise had never progressed beyond their one date, it wasn't for lack of interest on Ray's part. She was one of the most attractive women he'd ever met. Ray liked her fiery personality, her professional prowess and unabashed commitment to her job.

But Louise had ... issues. First, she was reluctant to date a cop, any cop, having been burned before. Second, she was ambitious. This made her extremely sensitive to the conflicts of interest created when cops and prosecutors became romantically involved, and the effect that frequent recusals could have on her career.

And, then there was Fraser. Unlike most of the women who encountered the Mountie, Louise couldn't stand the sight of him. She had never reconciled Fraser's role in the Victoria Metcalf affair and the murder of Charlie Jolly, and regarded Ray's partner with suspicion and contempt. Nothing Ray said changed her opinion. They finally had to agree to disagree and drop the subject entirely. Still, Fraser made himself scarce anytime he saw her coming. So did Dief.

Ray wished she would take the plunge with him, but knew that the odds were against it ever happening. So, their relationship, such as it was, was limited to the professional, spiced with the occasional flirtatious banter or creative insult. Still, he enjoyed it. But four hours locked in a tiny airless room alone with Louise and her perfume left him frustrated and exhausted, as if they had engaged in extended foreplay with no consummation at the end.

"Vecchio! Pay attention!"

He snapped out of his reverie. "I am! I did Mirandize the suspect. Twice."

"I asked about the search warrant!"

He rubbed tired eyes. "Asked and answered, counselor." He flashed a smile. "Sorry, that's your line."

She didn't smile. "This is a big case, Vecchio. We blow this one and more than one defendant walks."

"I know, I know," he said. "But we're beating a dead horse, here." He reached a hand across the table and took hers. "Trust me, Louise. I know my case. It'll be fine tomorrow."

She didn't say anything, but didn't pull her hand away either. But she stopped grilling him and called it a night. The next day was a long one. Ray, being on the witness list, had to report to the courtroom at 9:00 am, but the prior witness' cross took most of the afternoon. When that was finished, rather than start and stop Ray's testimony just before adjournment, the judge called it a day.

Louise cornered him before he left the building. "Ray, maybe we should go over –"

"Give it a break, Louise." He smiled to take any sting out of his words. "I'll be fresh as a daisy in the morning."

She looked uncertain, but then said, "All right. See you in the morning." She walked away briskly, then turned back. "Early!"

Ray found himself downtown with nothing to do. He didn't feel like going back to the precinct to work on his other cases. He wanted to keep the details of this one in the forefront of his mind, uncluttered with the minutiae of other files. Fraser wasn't around. He was tied up on a consular matter for a few days. He didn't feel like going home to his crowded house, either. Ma was leaving for Florida in a couple of days, so there was a steady stream of family and friends taking their leave, and rejoicing over her clean bill of health. He remembered that there was a Bulls game on tonight. He headed on foot to a cop bar a few blocks away that he knew well from his time in the 17th Division.

Eddie's hadn't changed much in the past five years. Ray was greeted by a few uniforms and a couple of undercovers from the old days. Eddie was still behind the bar, though Eddie, Jr. seemed to be doing most of the work. He took a stool at the bar and ordered a beer and a cheeseburger. He'd finished his beer when there was a tap on his shoulder.

"Ange!"

"Hello, Ray," his ex-wife said, leaning in to kiss his cheek. She was in uniform. "What are you doing in this neighborhood?"

"I was in court," he explained. "How are you?"

"Good," she said. "Real good."

He looked closely at her. Her eyes were smudged by deep shadows, and her hair, usually so perfectly styled, was in need of attention. She avoided his gaze and changed the subject. "I saw your picture on the front page!" She punched him in the arm. "Way to go, Vecch-i-o!" She said the last as if she was a cheerleader. It was an old expression from their marriage.

He shrugged. "It was no big deal."

She looked skeptically at him. "Ri-ight. No big deal, catching the high-wire burglar, pictures with the Mayor. Happens every day."

"So, you still on Juvey duty?" At her nod, he continued, "How's that going?"

"You know how it is, Ray," she said, avoiding eye contact. "Nothing ever changes." She squeezed his arm. "It was good to see you." She turned away, a weary slump to her shoulders.

"Ange," he called.

She turned back.

"You here with anybody?"

She shook her head. "Just dropped in for a beer before heading home."

"Have dinner with me."

"That's OK, Ray." She smiled, weakly. "I wouldn't be very good company."

He reached out and took her hand. "You're always good company." Just then, his meal arrived. He gestured toward the burger and fries. "Your favorite. Come on. Please?"

She hesitated, then gave in. He ordered two more beers and another cheeseburger. Then, he picked up the plate and carried it to an empty booth. She took a seat across from him and he slid the platter in front of her. She took a bite and made a noise of pleasure. Eddie's burgers were still the best in town.

At first, it was the usual cop talk. Then, he told her funny stories about his new partner, the Mountie with the deaf wolf. It pleased him to see her laugh so hard she had tears running down her cheeks. They moved on to family matters. Her mom was undergoing chemo for breast cancer, though the prognosis was cautiously optimistic; he told her about his mother's recent scare. To his shame, his voice cracked when he told her about blowing up the Riv. But she reached out and patted his hand. "Oh, Ray," she whispered, in perfect understanding, "your dream car." As the evening wore on, he told her about shooting Fraser in the back and watching as he was wheeled into an OR, utterly convinced that his friend would die on the table. It was very late when she told him about the kid who killed himself today, right in front of her.

Eddie, Sr. brought them their check. He cleared his throat. "Sorry, guys, but we're closing."

Ray looked around in surprise. The place was empty. The wait staff were sweeping floors and stacking chairs on tables. He glanced at his watch. Two am. He pulled out his wallet and paid the bill, waving away the money Angie tried to press on him. He helped her with her coat, then shouldered into his own. It was cold out on the sidewalk. No cabs in sight. His car was in the opposite direction from her place.

"I'll walk you home."

"That's not necessary, Ray. It's only a couple of blocks."

"I'm walking you home," he said, firmly.

She took his arm. They were silent on the way, but it was not uncomfortable. Ray enjoyed the freshness of the night air after the bar. A light snow was falling.

When they got to the door of her building, she looked up at him. "Come up, Ray."

"Ange. That's not why I walked you home," he began, but she put a finger on his lips.

"I know." She took out her keys and unlocked the street door. He followed her to the elevator and they rode silently up to the tenth floor. She unlocked her apartment door and pulled him in. Ray shed his coat as she turned on a few lights. Then, she walked back and faced him. She reached up, cupped her hands around his face and kissed him. Her lips were soft and sweet.

Ray's heart pounded as she deepened the kiss. He clutched her tightly to him. When they broke apart, both of them were breathless. She led him to the sofa and kissed him again. This kiss was demanding, hungry, almost frantic. Things were rapidly accelerating, when Ray disengaged and held her by the shoulders.

"Ange."

She tried to kiss him again, but he pulled away.

"Ange. Stop a minute. C'mon, stop,"

She looked up with liquid brown eyes. "Why, Ray?"

He took a deep breath and steadied himself. "All the times I wanted to do this before, and you always said no. You said it would feel good for a little while, then only make us feel worse when it was over. Open up wounds that we had finally let heal." She leaned in, and kissed his neck. "Why now, Ange?"

"I want you, Ray," she said, nuzzling his ear. "And, I can tell that you want me."

"Yeah, well, that's obvious," he said, wryly. "You always had that effect on me." He shook his head. "I don't want to hurt you, Ange." He swallowed. "And, I don't want to take advantage when you're hurting."

She leaned back and looked, wide-eyed, up at him. "Who are you and what have you done with Ray Vecchio?"

A snort of laughter escaped him, then he sobered. "I just want to be sure you're sure. And that you won't wake up in the morning hating yourself." He paused. "Or me. I couldn't stand that."

"Oh, Ray," she hugged him. "I could never hate you. I might want to kill you sometimes. But hate you? Impossible." She took a deep breath and smoothed her hair. "OK. This is me, stopping and thinking." She was silent for a long moment. Then, her expression grew serious. "OK, truth ... I want to be with you tonight ... partly, because I've had a lousy day ... partly, because it's been a long time ... a really long time." She glanced down, embarrassed, then looked back with shining eyes. "But mostly, because I want to love you tonight. I want to_ feel_ love tonight. And that's what it would be, Ray, even if it's only for one night." Her smile was small and sad. "Can you live with that?"

He looked deeply into her dark eyes and saw the truth there. "I can live with that," he said, huskily, and leaned in to kiss her.

"Vecchio!" Louise hissed at him, as Ray darted into the courtroom at 9:05. He slipped into the back row. She advanced on him. "Where the hell have you been!?" She took in the dark shadows under his red-rimmed eyes, his spotty shave, that he was wearing the same clothes as yesterday. "I can't believe you!"

Before he could say anything, the bailiff was calling the courtroom to order. "... the Honorable Randall P. McMurphy presiding."

The judge sat behind the bench, then spoke, " Ms. St. Laurent, call your first witness."

"The State calls Detective Raymond Vecchio," she said, her tone glacial.

As Ray passed her on his way to the witness chair, he said, _sotto voce_, "No worries, Louise."

She looked daggers at him. But, in the end, Ray was right. He nailed his testimony in all its particulars. Under cross-examination, he was cool, comfortable, and convincing. His rumpled appearance created the impression of the slightly dissolute man-of-the-world, a rakish but hard-working street cop. The jury loved him.

As he walked past the prosecution desk on his way out, Louise said quietly. "Good job, Vecchio." She ran an eye over his dishevelment. "Whatever you're doing, keep it up. It works for you." As the judge harrumphed impatiently behind him, she mimed holding a telephone to her ear. "Call me," she mouthed.


	11. Chapter 11

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

"I'm in a pickle, Ray," Fraser said, sliding into the seat across from the desk. He was wearing the brown uniform, his hat clutched tightly in white-knuckled hands.

Ray was eating his lunch, one of Hugo's smoked salmon specials. Fraser had finally gotten him to try one, and, to his surprise, Ray found he liked it. Not that he would ever tell Hugo.

"Yeah?" he said, chewing noncommitally. From hard-won experience, he had learned to take Fraser Sr.'s advice and not buy a pig in a poke. Or follow a man off a cliff. He waited for more.

But Fraser was peering at him, taking in the bloodshot eyes, five o'clock shadow, and wrinkled shirt. "Are you alright, Ray?"

"Fine," he said, impatiently. "What's the pickle?"

"I must re-certify my firearms proficiency by Thursday."

"This Thursday?"

"Yes."

"The day after tomorrow."

"Yes."

"Or what?"

"Or else, I'll be dismissed."

"From the Consulate?"

"From the RCMP."

"What?!" Ray was outraged. He knew who was behind this. "The Dragon Lady's gonna fire you?!" He shook his head, "Man, has she got it in for you."

"It's not Inspector Thatcher's doing," he said, quickly. "It's mine. I neglected to fulfill the requirements of my position."

Ray stared in disbelief. "You? You neglected requirements?" He frowned. "That's not possible."

Fraser lowered his eyes to the desk. "It's my own fault. Can we leave it at that?"

"That won't wash. Not with me." He lowered his voice. "C'mon, Benny. What's the story?"

Fraser looked at him, earnestly. "Truly, Inspector Thatcher is not responsible in any way, Ray." At his friend's skeptical expression, he took a deep breath and explained. "All officers of the RCMP must have their weapons proficiency certified annually. It's a core requirement of the position. "

"We do, too."

"When I was first stationed in Chicago, Inspector Moffit requested a waiver from Ottawa of this requirement in lieu of having me travel back to Canada for re-certification. It was his opinion that re-certification would be ... superfluous." He frowned. "He was concerned with the cost of travel in light of the Consulate's budget. And since I am not licensed to carry a firearm in this jurisdiction ..." He trailed off.

"HQ denied it?"

"No, the waiver was granted."

Ray looked puzzled. "Then, what's the problem?"

"The waiver was rescinded last June."

"But, you were in the hospital the entire month of June."

"Yes."

Ray protested. "But, that's not fair! You must have been entitled to a special dispensation or something."

Fraser nodded. "Inspector Moffit could have responded to Ottawa and, perhaps, requested an extension on my behalf, at that time."

"But he didn't," Ray said, grimly.

"No, he didn't," he confirmed. "And ... somehow ... the second letter from Ottawa warning that I had missed the deadline to re-certify was not answered either."

Ray was angry, now. "Let me guess. That came when you were still in the hospital?"

"Yes."

"What about when you got out?"

Fraser rubbed his forehead. "Neither notice was among the personal or professional correspondence awaiting my return to duty. Or in my personnel file. And, as you know, Inspector Moffit was gone." He hesitated, then said, "Promoted."

"That son of a bitch!"

"Now, Ray," Fraser said. "Oversights happen all the time. I don't believe Inspector Moffit would have deliberately failed to act or inform me."

"So, he was incompetent, rather than evil? That's no consolation," Ray said. It was true that Moffit was inept. But, higher ups in the RCMP blamed Fraser for exposing the Yukon dam scandal and the complicity of a fellow Mountie in murder. It was obvious to Ray that absence, in this case, was not making the heart grow fonder. This was no coincidence.

Fraser rubbed a thumb along his eyebrow. "It's my own fault for not confirming that the waiver was still in place."

Ray shot him a disbelieving glance. "C'mon, you'd have to be psychic. Don't beat yourself up." He straightened in his chair. "So, Thursday, huh? There's still time to take the test."

He shook his head. "I've been working on this all morning. Because I am currently stationed outside Canadian territory, the test must be conducted by a firearms instructor who meets RCMP regulations and is licensed for the law enforcement jurisdiction where I am assigned. That eliminates private instructors, even those who are certified by the State of Illinois or the National Rifle Association. That leaves the FBI or the Chicago Police Department." He sighed. "Apparently, there are a number of forms required by the FBI for a foreign police officer to be certified. And they must be submitted at least three months in advance. No exceptions."

"Federal bureaucracy is a real pain in the ass," he agreed. "What about our Department?"

"I made inquiry and was told that, while I am eligible to be tested by the CPD, there is a backlog on scheduling the test. The police academy has just graduated a new class and the influx of new officers is putting a strain on an already overburdened system. Adding to the problem, there are two vacancies in the instructor ranks due to the retirement of Sergeant Bolles and the maternity leave of Corporal Martino. She had a baby girl yesterday." He sighed. "The earliest opening is three weeks out."

Ray knew the answer before he asked. "Any chance of an extension with Ottawa until then?"

He shook his head. "The Inspector tried this morning. Her request was denied."

"Then, I'll drive you up to Canada. You can take the test at an RCMP range. We can leave tonight."

"The Inspector tried that avenue as well, Ray. Like your Department, there is a backlog. An even longer one, if you can imagine. It is impossible to squeeze me in by Thursday."

He narrowed his eyes. "There's something fishy going on, Benny."

Fraser shrugged. "Perhaps. But, it is what it is." He looked bleakly at his friend. "I ... I don't know what to do, Ray."

Ray's temper flared. "Get mad! Pitch a fit! Throw something!"

"That won't change anything," he said, his face a mask devoid of all expression.

"It might make you feel better," Ray retorted.

"No," Fraser said, flatly, "it won't." His jaw tightened and he lowered his head.

Anger burned in Ray's belly. This was a set up and a damned dirty one. Somebody had taken advantage of Fraser at his lowest ebb - lying flat on his back in a hospital bed - to plant a seed. That seed was now bearing a very poisonous fruit. Ray was the one who had put him in that bed. He would not allow Moffit, or Thatcher, or some faceless muckety-muck to use that horrible time against them. Enough was enough.

He looked at his friend, head down, shoulders sagging ever so slightly. Ray hated to see him like that. Well, I can be mad enough for the both of us, he thought. He reached over the desk and patted Fraser's arm.

"Leave it to me." He stood and cupped his hands around his mouth. "Listen up!" He had to repeat himself a few times before he had the attention of the squadroom. "Anybody doing their firearms cert this week?"

Everybody looked at everybody else. A detective in Vice by the name of Sandy Harris called out. "I go Friday morning."

"Friday?" he said. "Thanks, Sandy. Anybody else?"

Elaine spoke from her desk. "I think Guardino is scheduled for Thursday." She tapped a few keys on her computer. "Yeah, he is. Thursday at 3 pm."

Ray glanced at Fraser. "That's cutting it close," he said. "Would it work?"

A flicker of hope crossed his face. "If the certificate is faxed to Ottawa by end of day, Thursday, it will be in time."

Elaine came over. "What's up?"

Ray quickly explained. She frowned. "I don't know if that will work, Ray. Even if Guardino was willing to give up his spot to Fraser, you know what a procrastinator he is. He's put off his own cert till his very last day, too."

Fraser protested. "I cannot ask Detective Guardino to jeopardize his own position on my account."

"Relax, Benny," he said, soothingly. "One step at a time." He had a thought. "Elaine, when will Harris' current certification expire?"

Elaine tapped the computer once more and said, "She's got another six weeks."

He stood and straightened his tie. "Thanks, Elaine." He looked across the squad room. "I'll be right back." He walked over and spoke at some length with Sandy Harris, who glanced over and smiled at Fraser.

Elaine spoke. "We'd miss Diefenbaker around here if you two went back to Canada."

"He would miss you too, Elaine," Fraser said, solemnly. He paused. "As would I."

Elaine, surprised, brushed her hair out of her eyes, and didn't answer. She busied herself at her computer until her face was no longer flushed.

Ray returned. "Come with me," he said, herding Fraser to Welsh's office. He knocked on the doorframe.

"Come in, Detective. Constable."

Ray closed the door behind them. Welsh raised an eyebrow at that, but gestured to them to take seats.

"Sir, there's a problem with the International Joint Task Force of the Chicago Police Department and Canadian Consulate –"

"No, Ray," Fraser interrupted. "It's the International Joint Task Force of the _Canadian Consulate _and the Chicago Police Department."

"Are you sure," he said, "'cause I thought it was the IJTFCPDCC."

"No, Ray. It's the IJTFCCCPD."

"Enough with the anagrams already!" Welsh roared.

"I think you mean, acronyms, sir," Fraser corrected, then subsided at the look on Welsh's face.

"Vecchio, what's the problem with the IJT-whatever?"

"After Thursday, there won't _be_ a Joint Task Force 'cause Fraser's gonna be history."

"Explain yourself, Detective," he said, gruffly.

Ray told him the story with Fraser jumping in to correct the details. When they were done, Welsh frowned. "I can't interfere with the shooting range schedule. That division is strictly independent of the precinct commanders." He turned to Fraser. "To prevent corruption and cronyism with the cert process."

"I understand, sir," he said. "It seems a wise policy."

Ray started to speak, but Welsh held up his hand. "I also can't order Guardino to give up his place, Vecchio."

"No, sir," Fraser said, rising from his chair. "Of course, you can't." He nodded, stiffly. "Thank you kindly for your time." He hesitated, then thrust out a hand. "And, may I say, sir, that it has been an honor and a privilege serving with you."

Ray batted his hand down. "Hold on," he said, "you're not heading to the Great White Way just yet."

"Why would I be going to Broadway?" he asked, puzzled.

"Broadway?" Ray retorted, rolling his eyes. "I mean, you can carry a tune and all, Benny. But, you're hardly Mandy Patinkin."

Welsh roared. "Stop!"

Their heads swivelled back to the Lieutenant. "Sorry sir," they said, in unison.

"Sir, we're not asking you to order anybody to do anything." Ray ticked off points on his fingers. "Guardino can give his Thursday spot to Fraser. But he needs to get back in asap. Sandy Harris is scheduled for Friday morning. She can give up her time to Guardino. She has plenty of time to reschedule before her cert expires. And she's willing to do that." He gestured to Welsh. "Sir, all we're asking is that you give Guardino a twenty-four hour extension."

He steepled his fingers. "I can't give anybody an extension without a good reason." He grimaced. "You understand, Constable. I can't play favorites here."

He blinked. "Of course, sir."

Welsh leaned back in his chair. "I mean, if Detective Guardino was too ill to take his test, or had some sort of family emergency, that would be a different story. I am not an unreasonable man."

"No, sir, of course not," Fraser began, "However, Detective Guardino seemed to be in good –" He grunted as Ray jabbed him in the ribs with an elbow.

Ray cut in. "I think he mentioned a sick grandmother only this morning, sir."

"I hope the poor woman is soon on the mend," Welsh murmured. "Now, get out of my office."

"Yes, sir!"

"Thank you, kindly, Lieutenant."

They left Welsh's office with alacrity.

"Elaine!" Ray shouted.

"I'm right here, Ray," she said, wincing. "Don't yell!"

"Where's Guardino?"

"Downstairs," she said, making a face. "Huey and Louie pulled a jumper out of the river this morning."

Great, he thought, just what I need after lunch. "OK, Fraser, let's go." He looked behind him. No Fraser. He swivelled his head. "Where'd he go?"

Elaine pointed down the hall. Fraser was talking to Sandy Harris. She was standing close, looking up at him with an odd expression on her face. Ray grimaced. Sandy had worked Vice for five years now. Like all detectives in that division, her language could get pretty salty. He was prepared to see the aw-shucks routine played out in pantomime from across a crowded room. He was shocked to see the reverse, as Sandy blushed prettily and played with her hair. Then, to Ray's astonishment, she giggled. As he approached, Fraser nodded goodbye to her and joined him.

"What was that all about?" he asked, as they headed down the stairs.

"I was merely thanking Detective Harris for her help."

"I'm telling you, man, if you could bottle that ... " he muttered. At the foot of the stairs, he said, "Guardino's in the morgue."

Fraser balked. "Really, Ray, don't you think that's taking the charade a bit too far?"

In the end, Guardino parted with his time slot. It cost Ray his tickets to next Saturday's Bulls game and a raincheck for a lasagne when Ma returned from Miami. Fraser objected to the bribery on principal, but was shouted down by Ray and Elaine. His offer to make the lasagne himself almost blew the deal. Guardino was holding out for a bigger payoff when Elaine delivered the coup de grace.

"Louis, if you don't do this, Fraser is gonna be shipped back to Canada," she said, sternly. "It'll be all your fault." As Fraser started to demur, she shushed him. She stepped into Guardino's personal space and said, for his ears only. "And I'll make sure every woman in the precinct knows it." She crossed her arms over her chest and rocked back on her heels. "Hero or goat. Your call."

Guardino chose hero.

So, Thursday afternoon, Ray picked Fraser up outside the Consulate and headed uptown to the shooting range. He was sporting the red serge uniform. His sidearm, for once, was in the holster. He carried his rifle, wrapped in its buckskin cover, and two boxes of ammunition.

Ray gave him a sidelong glance. Fraser's job was hanging by a thread. If he didn't pass the proficiency test today, he was out. O-U-T. He was a bundle of nerves at the prospect, but Fraser showed no signs of inner turmoil. Of course, he never did. It was one of the most irritating things about him.

"You ready for this?"

"Yes, Ray."

Fraser was quiet for most of the ride. Maybe that was an indication of the state of his nerves. Or, maybe he just couldn't get a word in edgewise. Ray, when anxious, talked. And talked. And talked. He kept up both sides of the conversation for forty blocks. About everything and nothing. He knew he was nattering, but he couldn't stop it. If he stopped, he'd think about Fraser being an ex-Mountie.

Parking was usually tough at the 1-1, the precinct which housed the firing range. But today, it was particularly bad. Ray had to stalk an elderly couple exiting the building to claim their space. They checked in with the desk sergeant, a big, red-faced man. His name tag read Sergeant F. McLaughlin. He looked Fraser up and down through the half-moon glasses perched on his nose.

"You're The Mountie," he said, the capital letters evident in his tone.

"I am_ a_ Mountie, yes," he replied.

"Here for your firing test," he said, handing them their visitors passes and indicating that they should sign the log. "You know where it is." At Ray's nod, he said, "Good luck."

"Thank you kindly, Sergeant."

Ray and Fraser clipped on the badges, then walked to the stairs. McLaughlin called after them, "My money's on you." He gave Fraser a big thumbs-up.

Fraser returned the gesture. He glanced uncertainly at Ray, who shrugged. He followed Ray down the stairs to the basement level. The firing range ran the length of the building. There was another check-in, where Fraser completed forms and paid the certification fee. He was issued a set of hearing protectors and assigned Shooting Lane 3. Ray led the way down a narrow hall toward the sound of gunfire.

"This is the largest gun range in the city," he said. "They hold Olympic trials here, too."

"Impressive."

The narrow hall had flared into a large open space. The back wall housed a small set of bleachers which observed the shooting lanes. There was a balcony level, which was restricted, and a row of vending machines on the far wall. Ray came here once a year to re-qualify. Typically, the bleachers were empty; perhaps, one or two cops might be waiting to shoot. Today, the gallery seats were full to capacity. The din was incredible, between the buzz of the crowd and the sounds of shooting. The chatter stopped when they entered and heads swivelled in their direction.

"Busy place," Fraser commented. He moved to Lane 3 and set his paperwork and gear on a ledge for that purpose. He removed his .38 from the holster and set it beside the rifle. Then, he undid the Sam Browne and hung it on a hook. The red tunic followed. He pushed up the sleeves of the white Henley shirt and began to unwrap the rifle. He paid no attention to the crowd.

Ray frowned, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He recognized a lot of the people here, several from the 2-7. He saw Huey leaning against a wall and approached him.

"What are you doing here, Jack?" he asked, scowling.

He shrugged. "Louis wants to know how Fraser does with his slot." He smiled, slyly. "He couldn't come. His grandmother's sick, you know." He leaned in closer. "So, how good is he?"

"Dunno," Ray said. "Never seen him shoot."

Huey looked startled. "You're kidding me, right?"

"Nope."

Huey looked worried, confirming Ray's suspicions that there were bets down on the shoot. He was slightly gratified that Huey wasn't betting against his friend, but mostly pissed at the circus that had formed around this event. The cop grapevine had gone into overtime on this one. Just what Fraser needed. This wasn't some circus sideshow. This was his life. Looking daggers at Huey and the rest of the rubber-neckers, Ray joined him in the shooting cubicle.

"When's the last time you used a handgun?" he asked, in a low voice.

"By used, you mean ... " Fraser ventured.

"Fired ... shot ... discharged!?" he said, impatiently.

He looked thoughtful. "Eighteen months ago."

Ray stared at him. Before he could say anything, an older man dressed in golf shirt and khakis came out of a side door. He was wearing a badge that said Instructor. His eyebrows shot up as he took in the crowd. He approached Ray and Fraser. "I'm Don Frankel. I'll be monitoring the test. You Fraser?"

"Yes, sir," he acknowledged, extending his hand. They shook.

Frankel jerked his head toward the bleachers. "Friends of yours?"

"Curious onlookers," Fraser advised.

"I see," he said, frowning. "I can clear the room, if you'd like."

"Maybe you should," Ray began, but Fraser interrupted him.

"That won't be necessary," he said.

"Your call," said Frankel. "I need to inspect your weapons and your bullets." He moved into the cubicle and began his examination.

Ray pulled Fraser aside and lowered his voice. "Benny, are you sure you want all these people here, watching?"

"It's not what I prefer, Ray, but I don't think I can ask them to leave. They have as much right to be here as I do." He gave Ray a pointed look. "More, perhaps, since my presence was secured by bribing a police officer."

"OK, then," he said, taking a deep breath. "You just relax. Forget about everything and everybody. Do that thing you do. You know, that out-of-the-body thing."

"Zen?"

"Yeah, that's it. Do the Zen thing." He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "I'll be right over there."

"OK, Ray."

"Fraser," a female voice said from right behind them. Ray jumped, startled.

Fraser whirled. "Inspector!" The open box of bullets he had in his hand spilled on to the concrete floor. He bent to pick them up just as Ray did. Their heads collided with an audible thump. Laughter spilled out from the audience. Rubbing his head, Ray handed the bullets to Fraser. He could feel his own face burning and was grateful for the camouflage of his darker complexion. Fraser looked like a beet.

He patted him on the shoulder and whispered, "Good luck, Benny," before taking a seat in the first row. His stomach was in knots. He couldn't imagine the pressure Fraser was under, and now, with the Dragon Lady looking over his shoulder ...

Fraser stood at attention.

"At ease, Constable," she said. She wore a tailored black suit and heels, looking elegant and out of place in this utilitarian venue.

Fraser tried to cool his flaming checks by sheer willpower. "I wasn't expecting you, sir." He cleared his throat. "I trust your meeting was successfully concluded?"

"I left early." At his puzzled look, she continued, "I thought ... that is ... I wanted to show my ..." She kept looking at the crowd. "Fraser, what are all these people doing here?"

He looked uncomfortable. "I believe my re-certification has become something of a sporting event, sir."

"Do you mean ..." She leaned in. "Are these people betting on you?"

He nodded. "Some. Though, I daresay more are wagering against me, sir."

At that, she spun and glared at the crowd. A few officers flinched. Then, she stepped closer to him. "Constable, I know that this test is very important for you personally. After all, your future career is dependent upon it." She took a deep breath. "Frankly, if you fail, there is no future for you in the force."

"Y-yes, sir."

"Be that as it may, there are larger issues at stake. Much, much larger."

"Sir?"

"You know what Americans are like, Fraser. Just look at them," she said, contemptuously.

He looked over her shoulder. Fifty pairs of eyes looked back at him.

"You know the American superiority complex! They're looking for you to fail. Wishing for it."

"Sir, I don't think –"

She lifted her chin. "This is a matter of national pride, Fraser. We must show these Americans what we're made of." She patted his arm. "The honor of Canada is riding on your shoulders. Don't let us down."

He swallowed. "No, sir."

At that, she strode with her head held high to the bleachers and looked down her nose until two officers parted like the Red Sea. She took a seat and sat primly, hands in her lap.

"You ready?" Frankel asked. At Fraser's nod, he continued, explaining the safety rules. Then, he said, "We'll start with the sidearm. Target distance is 50 feet. You get to go 'round three times, if you need to. Passing score is 70%."

"Understood."

Frankel pointed to the balcony. "I'll be watching from up there. Good luck, son."

"Thank you, sir," he called after him. He donned the hearing protectors and picked up the .38. He took a couple of deep breaths and centered himself. After a long moment, he extended his right arm.

Ray froze. Fraser stood, right arm outstretched, the gun looking as if it was an extension of his hand. He held his breath. Then, Fraser fired six times. The crowd, which had fallen silent when he had taken aim, buzzed again. One spectator had a small pair of binoculars. He shouted, "One hit, the rest missed." Laughter, groans and hoots of derision erupted from the crowd. Ray buried his head in his hands for a moment, then sprang to his feet.

Fraser was removing the empty shells from the .38 when Ray clapped a hand on his shoulder.

"It's OK, buddy," he said, sympathetically. "Ignore those idiots."

"Yes, Ray," he said, distractedly, peering at the target.

Frankel came out of the side door. He was carrying a remote control. "OK, let's see what we got." He pressed a button. The target in the shape of a man trundled forward on overhead pulleys. Ray saw that there was indeed one bullet hole on the entire target. One shot through the paper thug's right shoulder. The rest had, indeed, missed.

"You'll do better next time, Benny," he said, outwardly confident, but inwardly reeling.

"I doubt it, Ray." he said, eyeing the target critically. "I am out of practice."

Ray cringed. "Don't say that. Of course, you will." He looked at Frankel. "He's just being modest." He shrugged. "Canadians."

Frankel reached for the clips that held the paper target and released it. He laid it flat and examined it closely.

Ray punched Fraser in the arm. Considering that he had more shooting to do, he hit him in his left arm. "What is wrong with you?"

"Ow!" he said, rubbing the spot. "What?"

"This is too important for you to just give up!"

He stared at him. "Who says I'm giving up?"

"You are!"

.

Before Fraser could say anything, Frankel spoke up. "That's some damn fine shooting there, son! Damn fine!"

"Huh!?" Ray said, mouth dropping open.

Frankel continued. "Your choice of impact point is unorthodox. Most go for the head or the heart."

"I prefer a non-lethal site," Fraser explained.

Ray was confused. "What are you talking about? He missed five shots! He barely caught the target!"

Fraser looked at Ray in surprise.

Frankel pointed at the target. "His first shot hit squarely in the shoulder. The next five went through the first bullet hole. Not quite dead center. You can see where they each nicked off a little more of the paper." He pointed to little scalloped edges around the hole, counting one through five as he did.

Fraser said, apologetically, "I'm a bit out of practice."

"Marksman status?"

"In Canada," he acknowledged.

"In America, too," Frankel said, enthusiastically. "If you do the full advanced test, I can issue the marksman certs in about a week."

"That's not necessary, sir. I just need the proficiency rating for today."

"Suit yourself, son."

Ray stared at him, then Frankel, then at the target. His grin started slowly, then grew until it was ear to ear.

"What's going on?" Inspector Thatcher asked imperiously, as she stepped into the cubicle.

"Who are you?" Frankel asked.

"I'm his commanding officer," she said, cooly. "Is there a problem?"

He rubbed his bald head and rocked back on his heels. "No problem at all. Best damn shooting I've seen in a long time!" He showed her the target and explained what it meant.

By this point, the rest of the room was buzzing in confusion. Ray sauntered over to Huey.

"Vecchio, what's going on?"

"You bet on Fraser?"

He frowned. "Yeah, there goes my twenty bucks."

Ray clapped him on the back. "_Au contraire, _my friend. You won. 99% proficiency," he proclaimed, in a loud voice. There were groans and expletives and demands to see the target. It was passed from hand to hand as Fraser qualified with equal ease with the rifle.

Frankel excused himself. "I'll be back with the certification." He disappeared via the side door, shaking his head. Inspector Thatcher stared at the crowd with her head held high.

Fraser shouldered into his tunic and was fastening the collar as Ray and Huey approached. Huey beamed at Fraser, waving a wad of cash and the paper target. "Way to go, man. Drinks are on me." The crowd was dispersing quickly now that the show was over.

Fraser thanked him, but declined. He and Thatcher needed to return to the Consulate to fax the certification to Ottawa. Ray took him up on the offer.

"I'll be with you in a minute, Jack."

"I'll meet you upstairs," he said, "I gotta call Louis." He turned to Fraser. "Can I keep this?" he said, referring to the target. At his nod, he walked away, saying, "He's never gonna believe it!"

Ray pulled Fraser aside, as he was fastening the Sam Browne. He spoke in a low tone. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

"That you're Sergeant freakin' York!"

"If, by that, you mean I have marksman status, Ray ... I suppose ... because you never asked me."

"I've been sweating bullets over this, Fraser!"

He chuckled. "Very funny, Ray." Then, he took in Ray's withering look. "Oh. You're serious."

"Of course, I'm serious!" he said, in a fierce whisper.

Fraser held his hands up, defensively. "I thought you knew."

"How the hell would I know? I never saw you shoot!"

"My uniform." At Ray's blank look, he pointed at the two badges on the left sleeve. Little crossed pistols and rifles, topped with crowns and rendered in gold thread, adorned the red serge.

"Oh," he said, scratching his head. "I thought that was just decorative."

"Ray, Ray, Ray," Fraser said, shaking his head. "Nothing on the uniform is 'just decorative.'" He straightened the belt and adjusted his lanyard. "Like the Sillitoe Tartan on your department's headgear. There's symbolic meaning in everything."

"Speak English, Fraser."

He paused, choosing his words. "The ... uh ... checkerboard pattern on the band of your hat?" At Ray's blank look, he continued, "The blue and white color for patrolman and detectives. Blue signifies justice, the white, purity of purpose."

Ray stared at him as if he was from another planet. "Where do you get this stuff?"

"The library," he said, in a tone that said "where else?"

Frankel returned. He handed Fraser a piece of paper. It was signed, stamped and sealed. Then, he held out his hand. "It's been a pleasure," he said, shaking his hand. "Damn fine shooting."

"Thank you, kindly," he said, uncomfortable with the praise.

Frankel nodded and returned to the side door.

"Fraser," Thatcher said, impatiently, "It's getting late." She looked conspicuously at her watch.

Fraser turned to Ray. "I have to go." He smiled, warmly. "Thank you for this," indicating the certification. "It means the world."

"Yeah, well, " Ray muttered, ducking his head, "you're welcome. I'll see you tomorrow." He watched as Fraser hustled to open the door for the Dragon Lady. Ray thought he heard the echo of "O Canada" as she sailed through, head held high. He couldn't figure her out. She had seemed to be genuinely rooting for Fraser to succeed here. He scratched his head. It was a mystery. He hated mysteries. He looked up at the ceiling. "I need a drink." Then, he left the gallery and joined Jack upstairs.


	12. Chapter 12

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

Diefenbaker click-clacked on the tiled floor as he approached the reception desk. Not that he could hear it, but the receptionist did. She smiled down at him. "May I help you?" Dief sat back on his haunches and wagged his tail. He looked over his shoulder, then back at her. She understood him perfectly and watched the dark-haired man in jeans, jacket and big hat, holding the door for a veritable parade of wheelchairs as a bus discharged from an outing to the mall. As the last one passed through, he rushed up to the desk.

"His name is Diefenbaker," he said. "And I'm Benton Fraser."

"Nice to meet you both," she said, adding, "I'm May."

"A pleasure, ma'am." She called Dief to her and patted his head. Fraser continued, "I'm looking for Mrs. Helen Barrowman."

"Oh, yes." May pointed to a door behind her. "Helen would be in the dayroom right now. Sign the book please, then you can go right ahead. You can't miss it."

"He can wait outside if -"

"Oh, no. We allow pets." She looked at Dief as he whined in objection to the p-word. "It's therapeutic for them."

"Thank you, kindly." He opened the door and held it for Dief. In the distance, he heard a man's voice call, "N twenty three, N twenty three."

Their progress through the senior center was slow as Dief was enthusiastically petted and patted by everyone they passed, staff and residents both. Some of the residents were in wheelchairs, or used walkers. A few dozed in overstuffed armchairs. Fraser smiled and greeted everyone by name. All of the elderly denizens wore name tags with big letters. No Helens among this group. Dief was gracious and patient, dipping his head here, licking a hand, there. A few treats were slipped his way, but Fraser didn't object.

As May had promised, the dayroom was easy to find, as huge neon green letters spelling out DAYROOM were painted over the entrance. They stepped into a sunny room, filled with long tables, bingo cards, and a flock of more active white-haired people. The BINGO game was in full swing.

A natty gentleman wearing a scarlet bow tie turned a crank and reached into a wire cage. "I- nine. I- nine," he called, in a reedy voice.

"Bingo! Bingo!" A diminutive woman screamed as a large woman yelled the same. The chant was taken up by others. There was a flutter of activity, and an argument broke out between the two woman as to who was first. Ink daubers were brandished. A professional-looking woman in a pink suit stepped into the fray. Fraser watched in admiration as she disarmed the combatants, literally and figuratively. She nimbly smoothed over the disagreement, confirmed the BINGOs and declared a tie. A red balloon was awarded to each winner, who resumed the game with smiles, amid the congratulations of their fellow players. Peace was restored to the Morris Fliegelman Senior Daycare Center.

Fraser had called the telephone number provided by Bill Pulaski for Helen Barrowman. The woman who answered informed him that her mother spent every day at the Senior Center, and that he should feel free to talk to her there. They had walked from the apartment. It was a crisp, clear day and they needed the exercise, even if Dief had complained the whole way.

Fraser took advantage of the hubbub over the game to read more name tags. No Helens here either. He was about to go back to reception and ask where else Helen might be found when the woman in pink said, "May I help you, young man?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said, "I'm looking for Helen Barrowman."

She extended her hand. "You've found her." Her voice held a faint Southern accent.

Fraser rocked back on his heels. He was a fool. This woman was 65 years old, give or take. A generation younger than the octogenarians that made up most of the room. She was petite, trim, with silver-blonde hair cut in a stylish bob. Vibrant and vital, Helen Barrowman was not the frail old woman he had expected to find.

She was still holding out her hand. "How do you do, Mr. –?"

He hastily returned the handshake. "Benton Fraser, ma'am," and introduced Dief.

She stooped and took his muzzle in her hands. "My, my, you are a handsome devil!" She glanced coquettishly at Fraser through lowered lashes. "And so's your dog." Straightening, she cocked her head to one side, and looked him up and down. She reminded him of a bright, curious sparrow. "You served with my husband?"

"No, ma'am. I never had the honor."

She put one hand on her heart and the other palm out to him in a dramatic gesture. She exaggerated her accent. "Sir, you must desist with ma'aming me or I do declare, you will make me feel positively ancient."

"Yes, ma' am." He blushed. "I mean, no, uh, Mrs. Barrowman." He tugged at his collar.

She took pity on him. "Call me Helen. What did you want to see me about, Benton?"

"Is there somewhere we could talk privately/" Fraser asked, as a chorus of Bingos erupted at a nearby table.

"My office," she said, leading the way down a corridor lined with occupied wheelchairs. It was like running a gray gauntlet. Each person that she passed was an occasion to pause for a word or touch. She complemented the hairstyle of one woman, the manicure of a second, flirted with one old man, and teased another. She bent to tuck an afghan around one wizened person of such extreme age that Fraser couldn't discern gender. Eventually, they reached her office, leaving a trail of good cheer in her wake. _**Helen Barrowman, Activity Director **_was stenciled on the door. The office was small and cluttered. One wall was covered with photographs of the men and women in her care, a smiling Helen in every one. She scooped up files from a chair.

"Please, have a seat."

He stood until she took the seat behind the desk. She offered him tea from a cozy-covered pot. As she handed him the cup, she said, "It's about those parking tickets, isn't it?"

"No, ma'am," he said, then at her raised eyebrows, "... uh, Helen."

She appraised him. "But you are a police officer?"

"I am," he hesitated, then added, "Royal Canadian Mounted Police."

"A Mountie!" She was delighted. "Can you sing?"

He sighed. That seemed to be the prevailing question that Americans asked upon meeting him for the first time. That, or whether he had a horse.

"So I am told."

"A Mountie, here in Chicago," she said, sipping her tea. "You're far from home, I'll wager. Where is that?"

"The Yukon, most recently."

"And, before that?"

"Inuvik."

Before he knew it, Fraser found himself telling her about working at the Consulate, living in the city, liaising with the Chicago P.D. and how much he missed his prior life in the North. Dief stared up at him in surprise. Fraser stopped abruptly, shocked at the ease with which he had talked about himself to a perfect stranger. He sniffed at the contents of his teacup suspiciously, but detected only orange pekoe.

She noticed his discomfiture. "I'm told I'm easy to talk to," she said, with an impish smile. Then, she set down her teacup and said, "What is this about, Officer?"

Fraser set his own cup down on the desk. He explained that Lieutenant Commander Pulaski had advised him to contact her. She asked after Bill and his wife, and was pleased to hear that they were expecting.

"He served with my husband at the Calumet Harbor Station for many years. Fine young man."

"It's in that connection that I came to see you."

"But, that was a long time ago. How can I help now?"

Fraser reached into his breast pocket and extracted his handkerchief. "I hope that you can tell me something about this." He unfolded the handkerchief and handed the _Semper Paratus_ patch to her.

"Oh, my." She looked at the patch with surprise. "I haven't seen one of these in years."

He leaned in, eagerly. "Then, you do recognize it?"

"Oh, yes. Though it's in terrible shape. Where did you get it?"

He hesitated, careful as to how much he should reveal. "Diefenbaker tore it from the sleeve of a jacket."

"Was someone wearing the jacket at the time?" she prompted, amused at his reticence.

"Yes."

She narrowed her eyes, all trace of amusement gone. She shook the patch at him, accusingly. "Is this going to get someone in trouble?"

He didn't flinch from her steely gaze. "I think the person who wore that patch is already in trouble."

She waited, tapping her fingers on the desk.

He met her gaze for a long moment, then made up his mind. He told her about the confrontation in the alley, about Dief's intervention and struggle with Dave, of the gunplay and car chase, reserving only the detail of the maple syrup.

When he was finished, she sat back, staring down at the patch. "And this? This is all you have to find these men?"

"Yes."

She spoke, slowly. "The new patch for the Station looks a lot like this. The only difference is there's now a lighthouse on it."

Fraser nodded. "Yes, I saw it on display at the station."

"The lighthouse design was added when the Calumet Light was restored. To commemorate it, you see. That was six ... no, seven years ago now." She traced the outline of the motto with a finger. "But the colors and the style of the lettering on this one are the same," she paused. "This is definitely our Station patch."

"How long would you say this patch was in commission?"

She pursed her lips and thought. "Oh, I'd say about 10 years before that. My George was promoted to commander in 1983 and it was in use then."

He did the math. "So, this patch could have been in use from 1978-1988?"

"Yes, I should think so."

"How many people would wear one of those?"

"Every officer or enlisted person stationed at the Calumet Light station during that time, their families, friends." She rolled her eyes. "That would be a lot of Daves."

"I don't think Dave served at the Station."

"Why do you say that?"

"An impression," he said, shrugging slightly. "He seemed too young." He paused. "Besides, the patch wasn't his."

She nodded. "That's right. He said it was his father's jacket."

"His dad's, yes. He seemed quite upset that it was torn."

She nodded, sagely. "Afraid he'd be in big trouble with his father for tearing it."

Something in what she said jarred him, stirring something in memory. Fraser shook his head, then closed his eyes, trying to reel in the elusive thread. Something. He summoned the events in the alley and played them back in his mind's eye and ear. Again. And again. Something there. Dief tore the jacket. Dave spoke. Al shot the gun. The car chased him. No, go back. When young Dave spoke. Something in what he said. Something. Not _what _he said! No, it was the_ way _he said it!

"_But it was my dad's jacket!"_

No, it wasn't fear that he'd get in trouble.

"_But it was my dad's jacket!"_

Dismay, yes.

"_But it was my dad's jacket!"_

Regret, yes, that was there, too.

"_But it was my dad's jacket!"_

Sorrow. It was sorrow.

"Mr. Fraser? Benton? Benton!"

Fraser opened his eyes and took a cleansing breath. Helen was looking at him with concern. He smiled reassuringly.

"No, Helen. Dave wasn't afraid of his father's reaction." He touched the watch strapped to his wrist. "This was my father's," he said, softly. "If it were lost or damaged, I would speak of it the same way as Dave did about the jacket."

She looked at the watch, then up at him in sudden comprehension. "His father is dead."

He nodded, slowly. "Yes, I think so."

She handed back the patch. "I should think it would be possible to request the names of personnel stationed at Calumet for that time period. With sons named Dave. The Coast Guard would have that information, surely."

"It may be possible. But, unfortunately, I don't have that access or authority. This is an unofficial inquiry." He looked earnestly at her. "I must use unofficial resources."

"Unofficial resources?" She gaped at him as the penny dropped. "You mean me?!"

"Yes."

She laughed, weakly. "But that's ridiculous! It was years ago! That Station had fifty officers and enlisted personnel assigned at any given time, constantly being shuffled in and out over the years."

"Yes."

She shook her head, vigorously. "It's impossible."

"Perhaps," he acknowledged. "Perhaps not. The human memory is an amazing thing." He held her gaze. "And you were the center of that Station, Helen."

"Me? Pooh!" She waved a hand dismissively. "I was just the commander's wife."

He shook his head. "You're wrong, Helen."

"What do you mean?"

"You forged the community that was the Station; you planned the picnics, the luncheons, the dinners, the pancake breakfasts; you circulated the news: reported the births, the transfers, the retirements, the deaths." He smiled, gently. "Yes, your husband was the head of the Station. But you ... you were its heart." Fraser spread his hands, encompassing the senior center itself. "As I believe you are here."

She was at a loss for words. He had touched her, deeply, with his own.

"If you'll try, Helen, I can help you to remember."

"I'll try," she whispered.

"Good," he said. "Close your eyes. Lean back. Relax," he said, in a soothing voice. She did as he instructed. "Good. Now breathe slowly and deeply. With each breath, let all the tension flow out of your body, through your fingers and toes ..." He continued with the words of the relaxation exercise he used to trigger a meditative state. He closed his own eyes.

She breathed. He breathed. Dief breathed.

He said, softly and evenly, "Cast your mind back. It is the year 1983. Your husband ... George ... is the new commander of the Calumet Harbor Station."

"Yes," she murmured. "I am so proud of him. He's worked so hard." She frowned. "The lighthouse is in a terrible state."

He continued. "You are a partner in your husband's command. He sees to the men and women who serve under him. You see to their families. You know these families. The husbands, the wives, the children, the new babies."

"Oh, yes," she smiled, dreamily. "I love the babies. I knit receiving blankets for the newborns." Her fingers moved slightly, as if she was handling needles and yarn.

His voice was soft, coaxing. "You celebrate it all. The engagements, the weddings, the promotions, the holidays."

"On a base, there is always something to celebrate." She chuckled. "And when there's not, we have a party anyway."

Fraser paused, then continued in a sober tone. "When someone is sick or injured, you are there."

"Yes," she said, sighing. "The waiting is a hard thing, especially if they're alone. Sometimes, I just sit with them. At home. Or at the hospital."

His voice deepened. "And when someone dies, you are there too."

"Yes," she breathed. "Oh, that's the hardest of all."

Fraser chose his words carefully. "Think back, Helen. One of the men under George's command ... perhaps an officer ... perhaps an enlisted man ... has a son by the name of David." He paused. "This man will die. Perhaps, while stationed at Calumet Harbor. Perhaps, at a later time." He drew a breath. "But you, Helen, you would know this. Because you keep track of the men and women and their families. Even after they move on from your husband's command. You stay in touch. You care what happens to them."

She smiled wistfully, eyes still closed. "Yes," she whispered. "They're family."

"This man's son. He may be a young boy when you knew him." .

She drew a slow breath.

"His name is David."

She was silent, eyes still closed, breath slow and even.

"Perhaps, they call him Dave." He paused. "Or Davey."

Her eyes flew open. "Davey! Oh, my God!" She put a hand to her mouth. "Davey Everett!" She stared at him, eyes brimming. Then, she let out a sob.

He instantly knelt by her side, fumbling for his handkerchief. Diefenbaker laid his head in her lap and whined.

She dabbed at her eyes. "Poor Davey! Oh, the poor child." Her voice broke and a fresh wave of tears engulfed her. She buried her head in his shoulder. He put his arms around her and patted her back, inwardly kicking himself for reducing this lovely woman to tears. Gradually, she regained her composure and pulled away from him, mopping her eyes with his hankie. Dief stayed close, and she stroked his head for several minutes.

When she spoke, her voice was husky. "His father's name was Tom. Tom Everett. He was transferred in from Lake Ontario. His wife had died a few years before we knew them. Breast cancer, if I remember rightly." She paused, taking a breath. "Davey was their only child." She smiled wanly. "A sweet, darling boy. But so quiet."

"What happened to Tom Everett?"

Helen looked troubled. "He never got over his wife's death. Mind you, he did his duty. George had no complaints there. But, Tom ... he was so young himself when he lost her. Poor man." She wiped at her eyes again and took a steadying breath. "Grief can drive a family closer together. Or tear it apart. Tom poured himself into his work and when that wasn't enough, he poured a drink. A lonely grieving child was more than he could handle." She bent her head over Dief and stroked his ears. "Poor Davey."

Fraser stilled. Davey's story struck a little too close for comfort. When next he spoke, his voice was carefully devoid of emotion. "What happened?"

"Tom was killed one night. He was leaving a bar, and stepped out in the street without looking, right in front of an oncoming car. The poor man was thrown up and over the windshield and landed over fifty feet away. It was horrible." She dabbed at her eyes again. "Davey was nine. George and I had to tell him his father was dead. There was no one else." She drew a shaky breath.

"And what became of Davey?"

"He went to live with his grandmother. In Elgin, I believe. His mother's mother." She frowned. "I tried to keep in touch. But the grandmother didn't approve of her daughter's choice of husband and cut all ties there." She sighed deeply. "Shame on me, I haven't thought of Davey in years." She looked at Fraser wonderingly, and rested a warm, soft hand on his cheek. "What did you do to me, young man? I feel like I've traveled years back in time. The memories feel so fresh!"

"You did it, Helen. A form of deep relaxation, almost self-hypnosis." He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you unhappy."

She brushed the tears away. "I'm being a silly goose." She gave him a wistful smile. "There are happy memories here, too." She hugged herself. "It almost feels like my George is here with me now."

"No. Just me," a voice said from behind her. Fraser looked up sharply. His father was standing behind Helen. She had bent over Dief again and missed his reaction.

He mouthed, "Go away!" As usual, it had no effect.

Helen rubbed her cheek against Dief's soft fur. He nuzzled closer. Her voice was muffled when she spoke. "Poor Davey. If you find him, you'll help him?"

"I'll try, ma'am."

She sat up with a watery smile. "I thought we settled that, Benton."

"Yes, Helen, I'll try." He smiled, warmly. "Thank you for your help."

"Oh, pooh!" she said, waving a hand in dismissal. "If you find Davey, will you and Diefenbaker come back and tell me about him?"

"We will," he promised.

"And sing for us?"

"If you'd like."

She brightened. "Do you have one of those red suits and a Mountie hat?" At his nod, she said delightedly, "Then wear that when you do!"

"Yes, ma'am!"

She walked him and Dief to the door of her office. He took his leave of her, then shocked himself when he leaned down and impulsively kissed her cheek. She smiled, then quietly closed the door of her office.

As he walked out of the Center, his father was on his heels. "Fine woman there, son. Damn fine." Fraser held the door for him. His father cleared his throat and looked him straight in the eye. "Reminds me of your mother." He spun on his heel and strode through the door.

Fraser stared after him. He touched the cheek where Helen had rested her hand. _Me, too, Dad, _he thought, as he followed him to the sidewalk.


	13. Chapter 13

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

Ray and Fraser leaned over Elaine's shoulders as she tapped on the keyboard of her computer.

"That's Everett, with 2 T's," Fraser said, helpfully.

Elaine made the correction, then hit "Enter." She read from the screen. "No criminal history under that name."

"Try the DMV," Ray suggested.

She switched programs. "Fifty five David Everetts are licensed drivers in the State of Illinois. Does he have a middle name?"

"He may," Fraser said, "but I don't have one." He frowned, "I mean_ I _do. But not for him." She looked up, exasperated. "That is, I don't know if David does."

"So, what is it?" Ray asked.

"I just said I don't know, Ray."

"No, _your_ middle name."

"I'd rather not say."

Elaine gave him another look. He looked intently at the computer screen, not meeting her eyes.

Ray persisted. "C'mon, it can't be any worse than 'Benton.'"

"Yes," Fraser said, "it can."

"Mine's Charlotte," offered Elaine. "After my Uncle Charlie."

"Charlotte's a lovely name," he said.

"Mine's Edward," Ray volunteered.

"You mean, Eduardo," teased Elaine. "I've seen your file. Raimundo Eduardo Vecchio." She repeated it. "Actually, that's a great name. Very Latin lover-ish."

"Truth in advertising," he said, modestly. Both Elaine and Ray looked pointedly at Fraser. He cleared his throat, muttered something, then said, "Can you narrow it down by age?"

"What did you say?" she asked.

"Can you narrow the David Everetts by age?"

"No, before that?"

"Oh," he said, looking down at his boots. "I said, uh, Archibald."

A grin spread across Ray's face. "You're right. That is worse than Benton."

Elaine smiled at Fraser. "You know that was Cary Grant's real name?" At his surprised look, she went on. "Oh, yes. Archibald Leach." She went back to the keyboard. "You know what they say – a rose by any other name ... so, what is David's age?"

"Eighteen or nineteen," he said, happy to change the subject.

Elaine tapped keys. "O-kay. Here he is. David Michael Everett, born April 15th so that would make him nearly 19. The license was issued when he was 16." She peered at the screen. "No suspension or revocation. It's good for another year." She printed the page, with the grainy black and white picture of a gawky light-haired boy. She handed the paper to Fraser.

"It's a Chicago address," he said to Ray. "Not Elgin."

He squinted at the printout. "That's on the North side. If it's him, saves us a trip out of town." He grabbed his coat. "Let's go, Benny."

He donned his hat and coat. "Thank you kindly, Elaine."

"Anytime."

As they were heading down the stairs, Huey and Guardino were coming up.

"Hey, Vecchio!" Guardino called. "You should see the wheels we just impounded! Swee-eet!"

"Yeah?"

"I'm talking classic here," he enthused. "In mint condition."

"Except for the bloodstains," Huey added, drily.

"Well, yeah, but they can get those out." He shrugged. "And there's always seatcovers." He turned back to Ray. "If it goes to auction, I'm thinking of making a bid. You know more about cars than me. Can you take a look at the engine?"

"Sure," he said, flattered in spite of himself.

"You know, Louis," Fraser began, "I've found that a solution of two parts caribou musk oil to five parts peroxide is quite efficacious in removing bloodstains."

"Course, then you have to get the smell of the caribou musk out," Ray interjected.

"Well, yes," he said, " but a solution of two parts witch haz -." Ray hustled him down the steps, calling "Later" to the other detectives.

The address that Elaine had given them was a row home on the North side. The neighborhood had seen better days. But this house sported fresh paint, colorful curtains and a shiny red tricycle parked next to the stoop . A careworn woman in her fifties answered Ray's knock. Two kids, a boy of about five and a younger girl, peered out from behind her legs. She looked at them suspiciously until Ray showed her his badge and introduced himself and Fraser. He asked if David Michael Everett lived at the address.

"Not anymore," she said, cautiously.

Fraser stepped up. "Was his father Thomas Everett, an officer in the United States Coast Guard?"

"Y-yes, he was," she answered, looking worried. "Is Dave in trouble?"

He answered in his most sincere tone. "We just want to ask him some questions in aid of an investigation, ma'am. There is no evidence of wrongdoing on his part." Ray thought he was splitting that hair pretty fine, but kept that thought to himself.

She looked relieved. Behind her, a kettle whistled. She glanced over her shoulder, then said, "Come in and have a cup of tea. It's cold out here."

"Thank you, ma'am," Fraser said, as he and Ray followed her in.

She led them down a short hallway to a cozy kitchen with red gingham curtains and matching tablecloth. The teakettle was shrieking as she removed it from the stove. She invited them to sit while she fussed with pot, cups and saucers. Fraser had removed his hat. The little boy gazed longingly at it, while the little girl hid behind him with her thumb in her mouth.

"Hey, kids," Ray said, in greeting.

"What's your name?" Fraser asked the boy. He shied away, but continued to stare at the Stetson. Fraser placed it on his head. Of course, it was too big. The boy giggled, but he wore it, tilting his head back, and peering out from under the brim. He had a sweet, shy smile.

"That's Danny," the woman said. "And his sister," she gestured to the girl, "is Bethy." She carried a tray to the table. "My name is Frances McIlheny." She poured tea into china cups, offered them milk and sugar, and took a seat.

"I'm their foster mom," she said, nodding to the children. "As I was for Dave. For a little while, anyway."

"I thought Dave lived with his grandmother," Ray said.

"She died when Dave was twelve," she said. She shook her head, sadly. "He had no other family to take him in. So, he went into care. We were his third or fourth placement, I believe."

"How long did he live with you, Mrs. McIlhenny?" Fraser asked.

"Oh, please." She waved a hand at him. "Call me Frances." She thought for a moment. "About a year and a half. He was fifteen when he came to us. Not yet seventeen when he left."

Ray politely sipped his tea. "He got his driver's license while he lived here?"

Frances smiled. "Oh my, yes. Passed it on the first try. One of the few times I saw Dave happy." She put store-bought chocolate chip cookies on a plate and passed them around. "He took driver's ed at school. We don't own a car, so my husband couldn't teach him."

"Why did Dave leave?" Fraser asked.

"Trouble at school. He was being picked on by a gang of kids." Her expression grew serious. "So, he began cutting class. We didn't know anything about it. He'd leave for school same time as always and come home in time for dinner. He kept that up for months. It was only when a truant officer showed up one day that we found out."

Ray looked down. Bethy was trying to climb into his lap. He reached down and boosted her up. She settled back against him, thumb in her mouth. He split a cookie with her and dunked his half in his tea. She wanted to do the same so he held the teacup close for her. A soggy clump of cookie dropped on to his designer tie, but he just brushed it away without comment.

Fraser suppressed a smile. Ray was a natural with children, though he pretended otherwise. He turned back to Frances. "Where did Dave go?"

"Social Services said we couldn't manage him. So, they took him out of our care and put him into a group home." She shrugged. "I suppose they were right. I hadn't a clue that he was skipping school." She squinted in thought. "He must be over eighteen by now. A legal adult."

"Do you know his whereabouts now?"

"No, we didn't stay in touch. I visited him once at the group home, but he made it clear he didn't want me to come back." She sipped her tea. "You have to understand. He was never any real trouble to us, but he kept his distance. We had two other children living here at the same time, but Dave wouldn't bother with any of us. It was obvious that the child was lonely and hurting, but he didn't want to be here." She sighed. "Unfortunately, he had nowhere else to go."

"Any friends?"

"He never brought any home. He'd get up, go to school, come home for dinner, and go to bed. Or pretend to."

"Is there anything else you can tell us?" Ray asked,

Frances shook her head. "I've often thought about him, wondered how he was doing." She looked at both of them. "I do hope he's not in trouble. If you find him, please tell him I was asking for him. He's welcome to come by and see us."

Fraser assured her that they would. They finished their tea and thanked her. She walked them to the door. Fraser crouched down and spoke to the boy.

"I have to go back to work now, Danny. May I have my hat back?" At the boy's nod, Fraser inclined his head. Danny placed the hat on his head, giggling. It was on backwards, but Fraser let it be.

"I think it looks better on Danny," Ray said, with a wink at the kids.

Fraser turned back to Frances. "If he wasn't actually going to school everyday, where did he go during school hours?"

She shrugged. "The social worker said he was doing odd jobs at a marina up on the Lake. I don't know which one. Under the table stuff, you know?" She paused, thoughtfully. "A couple of times, we picnicked at the Lake when he was with us. He loved watching the boats." She sighed. "I guess he got that from his father."

Frances and the children waved goodbye from behind the glass door as they took their leave. They sat in the Riv for a few minutes. Dief poked his nose up at them from the back seat, then went back to sleep.

"Cute kids," Ray commented, dabbing at the spot on his tie with a tissue. "I hope she has more success with these two than she did with Dave."

Fraser set his hat to rights. "They appear happy and well-cared for."

"She's a good foster mom. You can see it in the way the kids are around her." He grimaced. "That's not always true." He looked at Fraser. "Now what? It's a pretty big lake."

"Ah," he said, "but Dave didn't have a car. He would have walked, or perhaps taken public transportation, though I would think bus fare would be prohibitive. He was traveling there to and from home every day for months. It has to be close by."

Ray snapped his fingers. "The marina above Oak Park," he said, and put the Riv in gear. He pulled away from the curb. "You hungry?"

Dief yipped in the affirmative.

"You're always hungry," Ray groused.

"I am hungry, yes," Fraser said.

"There's a lunch wagon parks up at Oak Park Beach. Good chili dogs," he said. "We can stop there on the way." Ten minutes later, they were sitting in the car, with chili dogs and Cokes, looking out on the Lake. There were a few cars in the big parking lot, a couple of joggers on the beach, and a lone figure far out on the jetty. It was cold, with the breeze coming off the Lake. The water was steel blue, dotted with whitecaps.

Ray spoke around a mouthful of food. "So, what's the plan?"

Fraser chewed and swallowed before replying. "Show the DMV picture around the marina. Ask questions. Hopefully, ..." .

"... you get lucky," Ray finished the thought for him. "Don't expect much in the way of cooperation, Benny. That's a whole other world up there and cops ain't welcome to it."

He nodded, sipping Coke through a straw. Diefenbaker whined in his ear. Fraser spoke over his shoulder. "I am not giving you any soda. You know the effect carbonated beverages have on you. It'll be bad enough tonight with the chili dog."

Dief grumbled, but settled in the back seat, acknowledging the truth of it.

Ray was about to make a comment, when the radio squealed. "Vecchio!" He grabbed the mic. "Hi, Elaine."

"A body was found in an alley at Tenth and Costello, behind the mini-mart. The Lieutenant wants you there ten minutes ago."

"Got it. On our way." He replaced the mic, gulped the last of his drink, and handed the cup to Fraser, who was gathering the trash. "Sorry, Benny. We'll have to –" He stopped.

Fraser was staring through the windshield at the man on the jetty. As he stepped down on to the beach, he bent and scooped up a rock, then flicked it expertly into the water. It skipped several times before sinking. Fraser picked up the printout with David Everett's picture, then took the spyglass out of his inner breast pocket and peered through it.

"What?"

He handed him the small telescope. "Look at his right arm, Ray."

Ray peered through it, adjusting the sight. He was looking at a raw-boned young man, with light-colored hair, wearing a dark blue nylon windbreaker. His gaze traveled down to his throwing arm as he skipped another stone. There was a gap in the material where a white lining was showing through.

"Son of a bitch," he said, awestruck. He handed the spyglass back.

Fraser looked at him, indecision on his face.

"Go! You may never get another chance," Ray said. "Call me later." He looked at his watch. "I gotta go."

"Thanks, Ray," Fraser said, the trash from their meal filling his arms. He opened the door, held it for Dief, and deposited the trash in a refuse container that stood near a portable toilet. He grabbed his hat from the dash, set it on his head, and closed the door gently. Ray pulled away as quietly as he could. He didn't want to attract the attention of the young man on the beach. He was several blocks away before he turned on the flashing light and siren and put the pedal to the floor.


	14. Chapter 14

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

David Everett tossed the last of the bread crumbs to the motley crew of seabirds that had gathered around him. He folded the empty plastic baggie and put it into his pocket for tomorrow, then brushed the crumbs from his hands. As if it was a signal, the birds departed, moving further down the beach in search of greener pastures. It was cold, especially when the wind gusted as it was doing now. Dave huddled deeper into his jacket, though he welcomed the chill. It cleared his head and imposed a kind of penance. He needed both.

His thoughts, as they had for the last several days, kept chasing themselves round and round. This mess had started with a favor for a friend. And that had led him down a path he had thought he would never take. Now, where the path would lead him, and where it would end, he had no idea. But, he hadn't been sleeping or eating right since the night in the alley. No, be honest, before that. Since the night in the boat. He was absorbed in his own thoughts and paying no attention to his surroundings. Until something fell into his lap.

Dave opened his eyes. There was a piece of fabric sitting on his leg. He picked it up. Just as he recognized it, he felt hot breath on the right side of his face. He snapped his head around and looked into the eyes of a big white dog. It yipped softly. Dave jerked back in surprise. He looked down at the Coast Guard patch he held in his hands, then back at the dog in wonderment. "Where did you come from?"

A voice came from his left. "He's with me."

At that, Dave sprang to his feet, his heart pounding. He stared at the man who faced him - a tall man in a big hat, wearing jeans and a leather jacket.

"Y-you!"

"Yes," he said. "Me."

"Wh-what are you doing here?" he managed, as he contemplated escape. Adrenaline coursed through him as he prepared for fight or flight. But the Lake was behind him, and the man and the dog were between him and the parking lot. He wouldn't get two paces without being brought down by one or both of them on the sandy beach. And he was no good at fighting.

Fraser held his hands up in a calming gesture. "I just want to talk to you, David. That's all."

"H-how do you know my name?"

He smiled, slightly. "It's a long story."

Despite his fear, Dave spoke with the bravado of a world-weary teenager. "I got the time, dude."

Inwardly amused at the show of spirit, Fraser pointed at the patch in Dave's hand. "That," he said, "led me to you." He then launched into an abbreviated, no names version of how he had traced the patch from the time Diefenbaker ripped it from his jacket to the present moment. Dave's mouth dropped and he stared at the patch in disbelief.

In the ensuing silence, Dief whined.

"I'm sorry, I didn't introduce you - David Everett, meet Diefenbaker. Well, actually, you two have already met - but were not properly introduced - Dief, this is David," he inclined his head. "And, you may recall, I am Constable Benton Fraser of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police." Dief whined-growled. "OK, OK, I'm getting to that," he said to the wolf, then to David, "Dief wants to apologize for ripping the patch from your jacket. Or, rather, your father's jacket."

Dave stared at the dog, who seemed to expect some kind of response. "S'okay," he said, at last. The dog grinned and wagged his tail. Dave felt like he had been dropped down the rabbit hole. He wanted to pinch himself to see if he was dreaming. Instead, he ran his hands through his hair and said, "Look, I don't understand who you are or what you want."

"I just want to talk," Fraser repeated. He gestured to the sand. "Why don't we sit?" He sat, Dief sat, and Dave, after concluding that even if he ran, the dog would catch him, sat.

"Windy day," Fraser said, conversationally, as his hat was nearly blown off his head. He removed it and set it in his lap, keeping a hand on it. He looked around. The accommodations were spartan for a city park. Of course, it was the off-season. But, there wasn't much here beside the horseshoe-shaped white sand beach, wide here at the public access point, but narrowing as it followed the curve of the Lake in either direction. The jetty, a few concrete benches marked with graffiti, and the johnny-on-the-spot were the only amenities. The only wildlife he saw were the gulls. Several species, he noted, co-existing in relative harmony. Most of them were giving Diefenbaker a wide berth. One big one, with a black spot on its back, was brave enough to venture closer, curious to see if the newcomers had any food. He wished he did have something to reward this fellow's courage. When no snack was forthcoming, it wandered to water's edge in search of a meal.

Dave blurted into the silence, "Is it because of what happened in the alley? Is that why you're looking for me?"

"Actually, David, I'm looking for the maple syrup." As Dave gawked at him, he continued, "I believe you know something about it."

"How did you know about that?" he asked, dumbfounded. He was trying to get a handle on this situation, but his mind was reeling at each revelation.

"That's another long story and one I am not at liberty to disclose fully. Suffice to say, that I became aware that Canadian maple syrup was being sold to local restaurants through, shall we say, back-alley channels." He leaned closer, and said, _sotto voce_. "I suspect that's where you come in."

The young man had the grace to blush. "Uh, I'm not sure what I should say. I mean you're a cop, right? Do I need a lawyer?"

Fraser looked earnestly at him. "You'll have to answer that question for yourself, David." He shifted on the sand to a more comfortable position. "What I can tell you is that I'm a 'cop' in Canada. I have no arrest authority in this jurisdiction. And my interest in the maple syrup is strictly unofficial." As Dave absorbed what he said, he added, "I give you my word that I only want to talk to you."

"But what happened in the alley–" He swallowed hard. "We tried to shoot you and then run you over."

"Are you using the royal 'we'?" Fraser said, amused. At Dave's mystified look, he went on. "_You _didn't shoot at me. Nor did _you _try to run me over." His expression became solemn. "In fact, you tried to stop your associate - I believe his name is 'Al' - from shooting Dief and myself. I suspect you may have tried to stop your other associate from running me down in his Camaro."

"I did!" he cried, unwittingly confirming the make of the car. "But, he wouldn't listen!"

"Well, I was neither run over nor shot," he shrugged. "So ... to paraphrase my friend Ray ... what happened in the alley, stays in the alley."

Dave slumped in relief. "Oh, man. I felt really bad about that since it happened. I was afraid -" He took a deep breath. "I'm glad you're not hurt." He tentatively patted the wolf's head. "Or Diefenbaker." The wolf, laying on the lupine charm, put his head on his knee and looked up at him with liquid eyes. If he had eyelashes, he would have batted them.

"I still have questions, David," Fraser reminded him.

"I guess I owe you some answers." He paused, then said firmly. "But I won't rat out my friends."

"Understood."

Suddenly, the seemingly dozing Dief lunged after the black-spotted seagull, who had come in a little too close. The bird squawked and flapped, making a clumsy getaway over the water, its feet running along the top of a whitecap. Dief turned and grinned as David laughed, then ran down the beach toward a cluster of shorebirds. The gull he had startled, soared over him, then swooped down, hovered, and squawked at him, taunting him. Dief leapt for it and missed. The bird's caw-caw sounded like laughter. As they watched, the gull repeated the maneuver. Dief obliged on his part, and the game continued with some of the other birds getting into the fun. Fraser knew that Dief had no intention of actually catching the birds. What was curious was that the gulls seemed to realize it, too.

"Funny dog," Dave said, grinning.

"Wolf, actually," he replied, then continued, "Where did you get the maple syrup that you were unloading in the alley?"

"It's a long story," he sighed.

"I've got the time, dude," Fraser said, with the ghost of a smile.

Dave took a deep breath, then launched into his tale. At first, the words came out haltingly. "I work on the boats up at Oak Park Marina." He gestured vaguely to the north. "Some piloting, mechanical work, a little cleaning, whatever needs doing. I sleep there too. Different boats, different nights. I'm sort of a night watchman, I guess. Anyway, the one owner lets me borrow his little runabout once in a while, so long as I pay for the gas. Last month, Al - my friend - wanted to take the boat out real late one night to do some night fishing."

He turned and looked at Fraser. "Really, that's all I thought it was. We'd done it a coupla times before. So, we went up the shoreline a little ways when Al tells me to cut the engine. Then, he's hanging over the gunnel with a flashlight. There's a barrel floating off the port side. One of those blue barrels, made out of heavy plastic. He fishes it over to the side with the boathook, then calls me over to help him lift it into the boat." He paused for breath. Once he resumed talking, the words came pouring out. "I was scared shitless, I mean, I thought it was drugs and I didn't want to get involved in that kind of thing! I told him I was heading back to dock and there was no way we were putting the barrel in the boat. Then, he started begging me. Said he needed to do this. He owed a lot of money to another guy and he had to do this to get square or else he'd be in deep shit."

He paused, looking down at the sand. "Al's my friend. He was there for me when ..." he stopped, shrugging his shoulders. "Anyway, that's what friends do, right? They help each other out."

Fraser nodded solemnly. "That's what friends do."

"Al said it was whiskey, not drugs. But, I told him no way, I wouldn't do it unless we opened it up and I saw for myself. So, we brought it up on deck and opened it up. I smelled the maple syrup right away, but then I thought it was some kind of fancy maple-flavored liquor. So, I tasted it and, whaddya know? It_ was _maple syrup. Really tasty maple syrup. Al was upset that it wasn't whiskey. But I was so relieved, I didn't really think about that. Anyway, we picked up nine other barrels and headed back to dock. When we got back, Br - Al's friend was waiting. He had a truck with him, you know, one of those panel things? Anyway, he was really mad when Al asked him why he told him it was whiskey in the barrels, when it was really maple syrup. The dude wouldn't believe us! We had to open each and every barrel."

"And they were all maple syrup?"

"Yeah! Man, was he pissed! He looked at us like we'd done it. Like we pulled some kind of switch on him. Finally, he believed us. We loaded the barrels into his truck and he and Al took off. Later, Al asked me if I wanted to make some money helping them sell the stuff. I figured what's the harm? I mean, it was maple syrup, for crying out loud! And I could use the money." He snorted, "I can always use the money." He picked up a stick, and traced a line in the sand. The expression on his face was one of shame.

"What happened next?"

"Al and Br – my friends pumped the stuff into smaller jars and we peddled it to some restaurants." He averted his eyes and played with a shoelace. " I ... I ... knew it wasn't right. I'm no dummy. I mean, it had to be stolen. But it was maple syrup!" He looked out of the corner of his eye at Fraser. "I never thought there'd be any real trouble. When Al tried to shoot you and Br - his friend - tried to run you over, I freaked! I made them stop the Camaro and let me out. I'm not into that! Shooting dogs, running people over! We almost ran you down! It was so close! You were only an inch or two from the front bumper." He looked sick. "I dream about it some nights," he said, his voice almost a whisper, "Only then, in the dream, you don't make it and we hit you and you fly up and hit the windshield and there's all this blood! Just like –!" He stopped, running his hands through his hair in agitation. His voice shook. "I mean it was maple syrup, for chrissake!" He buried his face in his knees, trembling.

Fraser gave him a few minutes to regain his composure. "Do you know where the barrels came from, David?"

"Al didn't tell me, and I haven't talked to him since that night," he said, lifting his head.

"But you have a theory."

He nodded. "I think Bri– Al's friend – dumped them off a boat or a dock somewhere so they'd float downcurrent to us."

"Will you help me find where that was?"

Dave looked at him. "If you promise to keep my friends out of it."

"I give you my word."

For the next few minutes, he bombarded Dave with questions. The young man did his best to answer them. Satisfied, Fraser looked out over the beach. Except for Dief and the gulls, it was very quiet. The joggers had gone home, the lunch truck had driven away, and all the cars had left the lot. The park would be closing soon.

"Can I ask you something?" Dave said, tentatively.

"Yes."

"How did you get to be a Mountie?"

"My father was a Mountie." He picked up a flat stone and flung it into the water. It skipped twice before sinking. "When I was growing up, I wanted to be just like him. So, when I came of age, I applied to the Academy and followed in his footsteps."

"Is he still a Mountie?"

"No," he said. "He died nearly two years ago." He added, "It was in the line of duty."

"Sorry," Dave said. There was a silence. Then, he said, "My dad was in the Coast Guard." He picked up a stone, examined it, then rejected it. "He died when I was nine."

"Yes, I know." he said, then added, "I'm sorry."

"When I was growing up, I wanted to be in the Coast Guard, too." Dave's voice was wistful. He picked up another stone and whipped it into the Lake. It skipped eight times by Fraser's count.

"It's not too late."

He laughed bitterly. "Who are you kidding? I didn't even finish high school."

"You could."

"I could what?"

"Finish high school. Or rather, get the equivalent. I think it's called the GDE certificate."

"GED," he corrected. "Stands for General Educational Development."

"Ah," Fraser said, "so you've thought about it."

Dave refused to meet his eyes. "So what? What good does thinking about it do? I couldn't pass the test. I skipped most of my junior year." He paused. "And even if I did, the Coast Guard doesn't accept homeless losers like me."

"You're wrong," he said, seriously. "You may be homeless, David, but you're not a loser. And the Coast Guard does not make an issue about where you reside. Granted, you'd have to get your GED, but there are free courses offered all over the city that you can take to prepare for it. You won't know if you can pass it until you try."

Dave stared at him.

He continued, mentally reviewing the recruitment poster he had seen in Bill Pulaski's office. "There's a physical." He looked Dave up and down. "You seem fit." He paused, "Then, there's the Aptitude Tests. I imagine preparing for the GED might help you with those, as well." He pursed his lips. "I don't know. The final requirement might be difficult for you."

"What's that?"

"You have to be willing to work on or around the water," he deadpanned.

Dave snorted, then sobered. "But, I'm a criminal!"

"You have no criminal record," he said, neutrally.

"But, you caught me ... stealing the maple syrup, and selling it in back alleys."

"First of all, _you _didn't steal the maple syrup, Al's friend might have, and Al might have conspired with him, but we don't know that for sure. Arguably, you salvaged flotsam from Lake Michigan. Selling maple syrup in those small quantities as an unlicensed vendor is against the law, true. But it's not a_ crime_ in Chicago. At best, it's a summary offense." At Dave's mystified look, he explained, "That's on the level of a speeding ticket." He added. "I'm not authorized to issue speeding tickets in this jurisdiction."

Dave looked hopeful. "Still ..."

"You made a mistake," he said. "We all do." Unbidden, an image of himself running desperately for a train popped into his head, but he ruthlessly pushed it away.

"It was a pretty big mistake," Dave said.

"Yes, it was," he said, absently. Then, mentally shaking himself, he continued, "But, some mistakes can be rectified." He took a deep breath. "Most importantly, you're sorry. And you'll never do anything like that again." He looked pointedly at the boy. "Right?"

"R-right," he said. "D - do you really think I could get into the Coast Guard?" The eager expression on his face touched Fraser.

"Yes."

He rubbed his face and blew out a noisy breath. "I don't even know where to start."

"I'll help you."

The young man was astonished. "Why? You don't even know me."

"I know enough." Fraser pulled his notebook from his breast pocket and wrote in it. "This is the telephone number of the Canadian Consulate. Just ask for me." At his surprised look, he explained, "It's where I work. If you decide that you'd like to try, call me. Leave a message if I'm not there."

Dave took the piece of paper and tucked it carefully into his wallet. He dusted sand off his hands, and held one out. "Thanks."

Fraser shook it. Then, he stood, brushing sand off the seat of his pants. "Dief!" he called to the wolf, who was playing hide and seek with the black-spotted gull. "Goodbye, David. I hope to hear from you again."

He looked up at him for a long moment, before replying. "Count on it."

Fraser set his hat firmly on his head. Dief bounded over to Dave, accepted a pat on his ruff, then fell in with Fraser as they walked off the sand and on to the firm surface of the parking lot. One car had pulled in to the lot while they were talking. A man sat in the passenger seat. The vehicle was parked as closely as possible to the bollards nearest the johnny-on-the-spot. Fraser grabbed at his hat as a sudden gust of wind nearly took it. The same gust rocked the portable toilet and he heard a startled exclamation from its occupant. He exchanged amused glances with Dief. Then, he looked back to see David Everett still sitting where he had left him, staring out over the water.

Dief yipped a question.

"Yes, I think we will hear from him again."

Another yip-whine.

"There's a bus stop one half mile up the road. We can meet up with Ray back at the station."

Dief made a noise.

"Well, yes, but perhaps the driver will let you board this time. If you ask politely." Dief grumble-whined and trotted along beside him. At that moment, a stronger gust succeeded in taking Fraser's hat. He whirled, grabbed, and missed. The wind rolled it on its brim across the parking lot. He chased it in a running crouch for several yards before it came to a stop just under the rear of the parked car. A Cadillac, he noted. As he reached for the Stetson, he heard the passenger door open and close. From his vantage, he couldn't see the man who was exiting the vehicle. Conversely, the man couldn't see him either. Fraser was about to stand and make his presence known, when he heard a noise. A noise that caused him to duck back behind the car, his heart beating rapidly.

It was the sound of the slide of an automatic handgun being pulled back as a bullet was loaded into the chamber.


	15. Chapter 15

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

Ray flashed his badge to the uniformed cop directing traffic around the detoured street. She moved the barricade for him and he smiled his thanks. Ahead on the right, he saw several marked units, the Lieutenant's car, and the meat wagon double-parked in front of Foresta's mini-mart. The adjoining alley was also barricaded, and two more uniforms were directing the foot traffic and the rubberneckers to move along.

Esther Pearson, his favorite blonde medical examiner, was kneeling next to a corpse, her crime scene kit open beside her. Welsh peered over her shoulder. He looked up at Ray's approach.

"Vecchio," he called, "good of you to join us."

"Sorry, sir. I was on the other side of town when I got the squeal." He crouched across from Pearson. "What have we got?"

"Hold your horses, Detective. I just got here, too," she said, drily. "All I can tell you is white male, in his early twenties, single gunshot wound to the back of the head, apparently while he was kneeling down between these dumpsters."

"Time of death?"

"Not long ago," She shrugged. "Can't tell you more till I run some tests. It's so cold today, body temp isn't much of a help."

Welsh spoke up. "The store clerk who found the body says it wasn't here two hours ago."

Ray pulled on a pair of latex gloves. While Pearson did her clinical tasks, he carefully went over the body, without disturbing its position. His search yielded a worn leather wallet from the back pocket of the vic's jeans. He flipped it open and pulled out a driver's license. He read aloud. "Albert Martin Ames. Date of birth: May 1, ****. Shame. Just a few months shy of legal drinking age." He read off an address. North side. Not this neighborhood. He riffled through the cash. "There's a coupla hundred here, sir." He looked at the left wrist. "Expensive watch." He looked up at his commander. "I'll go out on a limb, sir, and say this was probably not a robbery."

Welsh rolled his eyes.

Ray peered at the back of Albert Martin Ames' head. Small entry wound, little blood.

".22?" He put the question to Pearson. "No exit wound?"

"Looks like it, but don't hold me to it until you get my report."

Ray looked back to the Lieutenant. "Shot in broad daylight, body left to be found quickly and i.d.'d fast, small caliber to the back of the head of a vic on his knees, no robbery. This is a hit, sir."

He nodded, grimly. "The wise guys are getting younger and younger."

Ray grimaced, "Everybody's younger to me these days. My new doctor looks like Doogie Howser."

"Wait'll you're my age," Welsh grumbled. He pulled him aside. "I want you to coordinate with Huey and Louie on this one, Vecchio.

"The Duck Boys? Why?"

"This morning, they got the call on a twenty-four year old white male, shot in the back of the head, small caliber bullet, conspicuous disposal of the body." He raised an eyebrow. "Coincidence? I think not." Welsh stepped back to Esther and laid a hand on her shoulder. She smiled up at him. "Pick you up at eight?"

"I'm looking forward to it," she said, then turned back to the dead man. Welsh climbed into his car and left the scene.

Ray interviewed the young mini-mart clerk who found the body. Since the discovery, he had been kept sequestered by the uniform who had taken his initial statement. When Ray approached them, the kid was ready to bounce off the walls. He took him outside so he could smoke, but away from a view of the body.

He confirmed the details of the discovery. It was his habit to take out the garbage every two hours and catch a smoke at the same time. Today, he had sheltered from the wind between the dumpsters at noon. There was no body. He had seen nothing suspicious. Two hours later, he had nearly stepped on the stiff. He pointed out the two trash bags he had been carrying which he had dropped in shock. One bag had split open. That was the sum total of his knowledge. Ray believed him. No one else who worked at the store had seen anything. Ditto a few customers who had been detained by the officers on the scene. The alley was shared by Frieda's Waffle Shop. No one there had seen or heard anything. Ray let them all go.

He dialed the division number on his mobile.

"Elaine. It's me. I need a criminal history check on one Albert Martin Ames." He read off the dob and address from the driver's license. She repeated them. "Yeah, that's right. Meantime, patch me through to Guardino or Huey." She clicked off.

Huey picked up. "Yeah, Vecchio?"

"Tell me about this morning's vic, the guy with the gsw to the back of the head.

He went on the defensive. "What's it to you?"

"Knock it off, Jack. I caught a similar squeal just now. The Lieutenant wants us to coordinate."

"Oh, great. I just love to co-or-di-nate," he said, sarcastically. "OK. Brian Philip Mosely, white male, 24, shot in the back of the head with a small caliber weapon at close range. The shooter was probably sitting in the back seat of the Camaro when he pulled the trigger."

"The Camaro? Is that the car Guardino wants?"

"Yeah, it's a sweet ride." He paused. "Except, you know, for the bloodstains."

"What else have you got?"

Huey filled him in on a few details. Mosely's address was also on the North Side. A record of small crimes, nothing major. Nothing else seemed relevant at this juncture, until they had more info on the newest victim and they could see what these two young men had in common. Besides, the depressing fact of being too young to be dead.

"Elaine wants to talk to you," Huey said, when they had finished. He transferred the call.

"Ray?"

"Yeah, Elaine?"

"Your guy has a record, but it's petty stuff. There's some juvey cases, but, of course, that's sealed. Since he turned eighteen, breaking into cars and boosting tape decks and radios, shoplifting, stuff like that."

"Any mob connection?"

"Nothing that I could see. No family relationships or known associates." Elaine sounded puzzled. "Albert Martin Ames wasn't even twenty-one. I thought the mob doesn't rob the cradle, as a rule?"

"He doesn't need to be actually_ in _the mob to get hit like this." Ray was more or less thinking out loud. "Maybe, he crossed somebody."

She sighed. "It's a shame."

"Yeah," he agreed, then hung up. A crime scene tech approached. "Detective, we've finished pictures and prints. We're ready to bag him."

Ray nodded. He stood back as the techs put Albert Martin Ames into a body bag and zipped it up. He was hoisted on to a stretcher and wheeled away. The rest of the tech crew finished up and left. Ray stood there alone, looking down at the spot where the body had lain. There was nothing here to mark the passing of a human being. Not even blood. Just a couple of garbage bags. He sighed and turned away.

Ray had only taken a few steps, when he turned back. He looked around furtively. No one was watching. He retraced his steps and reached for the garbage bags. One more thing that irritated him about Fraser, if he ever made a list. Which, if he did, would be a very, very long list, indeed. Before he met the Mountie, it would never have occurred to Ray to pick up the garbage himself. But now? Now, he knew if he walked away, it would bother him that he had left it. And this wasn't an isolated incident. Last Friday, he had found himself holding the door open at his bank for a parade of people. On Tuesday, he had let an old man ahead of him in the grocery store express lane, even though he had more than ten items. What next? Walking little old ladies across the street? If that happened, it would be the end of life as he knew it. He might as well defect to Canada.

Shaking his head, he tossed the intact bag into the dumpster. Then, he knelt and gathered the contents of the split bag. It was all fruit and vegetable waste except for one small glass jar containing a brown liquid. He bundled the produce into the remains of the bag and put it in the dumpster, then picked up the jar. He pulled his arm back to throw it in, then stopped. Funny, that the plastic bag would split, but a glass jar wouldn't break. He looked at it. No labels or identifiers on the clear glass. None at all.

"Goddam it, Fraser," he muttered, as he unscrewed the lid and took a very tentative sniff, then a deeper one. It smelled like maple syrup. There was no way - no way - he was tasting it to be sure. He put the lid back on, turned and looked up at the sign for Frieda's Waffle Shop. Then, back at the ground where the body had fallen. And where the store clerk had dropped his garbage bags, accidentally covering the jar that had rolled out of Albert Martin Ames' hand when he died. He'd bet his beloved Riviera that the dead boy went by the nickname of "Al" and that Ray was holding his salesman's sample in his hand.

He tucked the jar in the pocket of his overcoat. His heart hammered in his chest, his mouth was dry, his breathing rapid. Why? He closed his eyes for a moment and concentrated on what his instincts were screaming at him. Maple syrup. The Coast Guard patch. A Camaro nearly running Fraser down in another alley. "Al," who had tried to shoot Dief first, then Fraser. Guardino's bloodstained Camaro with Brian Mosely dead in the driver's seat. "Dave" of the torn jacket. David Everett!

"Omigod, Fraser!" He raced to his car, and grabbed the radio. He identified himself to Dispatch. "Send a unit to the parking lot at Oak Park Beach, the south entrance. Extreme caution. Possible 187 in progress. Officer in peril. I'm on my way!"

"Roger that, Detective."

Ray started the engine, flipped the switch for the lights and siren and peeled away from the curb.


	16. Chapter 16

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

Frazer crouched behind the parked Cadillac, his ears straining. He couldn't see the man who had the gun and dared not poke his head up over the car. He hoped the corollary was true and that he himself couldn't be seen. He looked back to where he had left Dief, when he began chasing his hat. The wolf was on alert, ears pricked up, clearly aware that there was something amiss, though he couldn't have heard the chambering of the weapon.

Fraser, using hand signals, told him to stay quiet and conceal himself in what little cover the scrub around the edges of the parking lot provided. The last thing he wanted to do was startle a man with a loaded gun in his hand. A little voice in his head was warning him not to jump to conclusions. This was America where gun ownership was considered an inviolate constitutional right. Perhaps, the man was merely here to practice his aim in the safety of an unpopulated setting. If that was the case, there was little difference between that and what he himself had done Thursday last at the target range.

Fraser took a breath when he heard footsteps moving away from his position. Then, a rough voice said:

"Joey, what the hell you doin in there?"

"Whaddya think?!" came the exasperated reply. The voice was muffled. Obviously, "Joey" was the occupant of the portable toilet. There was a groan. "I think it was that burrito I had at lunch."

"Well, hurry it up! It's your turn. The guy with the dog left. The kid's alone. Don't know how long he's just gonna sit there."

Fraser's heart sank. The admittedly remote hope that there was a perfectly ordinary and nonviolent reason for the gun evaporated. He was dealing with two gunmen with murderous intentions toward young David Everett.

"Hurry it up, he says?!" said the voice from within, the sarcasm coming through loud and clear. "Ya think I'd be sittin' here freezin' my balls off if I could help it?"

"OK, OK," the gunman said, contritely. "Sorry." He paused. "I'll do the kid."

"Thanks, man," came the reply. "I owe you one."

Fraser lifted his head, cautiously. The gunman had his back to him. The weapon, an automatic, possibly a Glock, was in his left hand; that arm hung down, close to his side. He walked unhurriedly across the beach on the diagonal to where David sat looking out at the water, oblivious to his danger. Fraser thought, quickly. He spotted Dief in the brush, and beckoned. Then, he crept out from behind the car and keeping low, moved carefully toward the portable toilet. He took up position at the back, opposite the door, which shielded him from the view of the man on the beach. He put his ear to the cold surface of the unit. He winced in sympathy as he heard a groan, then the unmistakable sounds of a man in the throes of lower gastrointestinal distress.

Dief nudged his leg. Fraser looked down. He mouthed his words, emitting no sound. "Circle around to David. Keep close to the water. I will create a diversion here. Get David away. Be quiet. Be careful. Go."

Dief went. Fraser watched as he circled around the beach, then trotted over to water's edge to the east of David's position. The wolf was careful to keep out of the line of sight of the gunman. Satisfied, Fraser contemplated his diversion. He examined the portable toilet's engineering. It was a solid piece of molded plastic. The unit was set on a concrete pad, but not anchored in any way that he could see. He braced his shoulder against the outer wall of the unit, judged Dief's position as close enough, and pushed.

Several things happened at once: there was a sharp gust of wind; Fraser, grunting with effort, tipped the port-o-let on its far edge; Joey, inside the unit, let out a shout of alarm; the gunman whirled, looking back at the leaning toilet; Dief raced to David; David turned his head, curious at the sound. For a moment, the tableau seemed frozen in time. Then, the portable toilet reached the tipping point and went over, landing door-side-down.

There was a scream from inside, then a huge sloshing sound, then Joey screamed even louder. Fraser, who had ducked and rolled behind the long length of the toilet as it fell, lay on the ground snugged right up against the plastic cubicle. He breathed shallowly through his mouth. Even though he had a high tolerance, the smell on the outside was appalling. He couldn't imagine what the inside was like. Based on Joey's hysterical yelling and banging, he didn't want to.

"Vinnie! Vinnie! Get me the f— outta here! Vinnie!" Joey coughed and gagged between screams.

Fraser peered around the edge of the port-o-let. The gunman - Vinnie, by name - had turned around and was gaping at the sight of the toilet containing his screaming partner, lying supine on the ground. From that vantage, he couldn't see Fraser lying parallel on the ground next to it.

David stood, staring at the overturned unit. Dief yipped at him and pulled at his sleeve, trying to get him to go. The boy, in his confusion, resisted.

Vinnie looked back at David and Dief and raised the gun. David froze in place. Dief was too far away from the gunman to make a move. By the same token, the gunman was not at optimal range to shoot the boy or the wolf. The man trapped in the toilet was making an unholy racket. Vinnie stood there, indecision written on his face and in his body language.

He shouted, "Joey, shut up!" Unlike his partner, Vinnie was trying to keep his wits about him. Of course, Fraser figured it was a lot easier to do so when you weren't trapped in a dark, cold, foul-smelling box, wallowing in human waste. The gunman hadn't seen Fraser yet; he was probably wondering if the blustery wind could have actually tipped the toilet over. In a moment, Fraser was sure he would formulate a course of action that involved shooting Dief first, then David, then freeing his trapped companion, before fleeing the scene. It was time to make his presence known.

"Run, David," he said, popping his head over the edge of the toilet. As he had hoped, Vinnie swung the gun back toward his voice. "Go with Dief! Now!" Fraser shouted, then ducked as Vinnie fired at him. The bullet went through the toilet taking a piece of plastic with it, but missed Fraser.

A scream erupted from the toilet. "Somebody's shootin at me! Vinnie! Vinnie!"

Vinnie held his fire. Fraser peeked around the toilet. Dave and Dief were running down the beach, putting distance between themselves and Vinnie. He gave chase, but his dress shoes gave little purchase on the shifting sand. Dave and Dief, running on the firmer packed sand at water's edge, were outpacing the middle-aged gunman. He fired at them, getting off two shots, but they kept running.

Fraser called to him, trying to draw fire away from Dief and the boy. "Vinnie! Drop your weapon and give yourself up!"

It worked. Vinnie spun and fired twice more at Fraser. He pressed himself into the ground. The bullets impacted the portable toilet but missed him.

"What the f— is happening?! Vinnie, get me outta here!" Joey screamed. "I can't breathe! Vinnie!"

Vinnie seemed to gather control of himself, and shouted, "Joey, shut up! We have a situation out here!"

"F— the situation! Get me outta here!"

Fraser peered around the top of the toilet. He spoke loudly and clearly. "He can't do that, Joey. Not as things stand." He paused. "Vinnie, throw the gun down. Together, we can get Joey out of the toilet. I'm afraid prolonged contact with the effluvium is hazardous to his health."

If possible, the panic in Joey's voice escalated. "There's fluviums in here?! Vinnie, get me out! Now!"

"Who are you?" Vinnie yelled, keeping the gun pointed at Fraser's position. "A cop? And, what? A K-9?" He paused. "But, if you're a cop, you're off-duty," he said, thinking out loud, gaining confidence as he went on. "Yeah, yeah, you got no car here, no radio, no backup. I bet you ain't got no gun!"

"Any gun," Fraser corrected, automatically.

"What?"

"Never mind," he said. Summoning a mental image of Ray, he laughed brashly and called, "Don't be ridiculous! What kind of off-duty cop doesn't carry a gun? This is Chicago, for crying out loud!" He paused, then said with more conviction. "It may interest you to know that I re-qualified my firearms proficiency at the shooting range only last week!"

Joey wasn't interested. "Just shoot him, Vin! You're flapping your gums with this guy while I'm in the shitter with wild fluviums swimmin around! Get me outta here!"

"Ah," Fraser explained, "but your friend can't just shoot me, Joey. He has to shoot through the toilet to get to me, and he might hit you. Now, even if he decided that was an acceptable risk, what's to stop me shooting him?

Vinnie cocked his head to one side. "If you had a gun, you'd have shot it by now, I'm thinking."

Fraser, still channeling Ray Vecchio, laughed scornfully. "Oh, yeah? Why don't you come on over here and see, Mr. Smartypants?"

Vinnie stood, chewing his lip, but his gun arm never wavered. Fraser knew if he broke cover, Vinnie was unlikely to miss. Still, he needed to give Dief and David as much time to escape as possible.

He called, "The longer this stalemate goes on, Vinnie, the more likely that someone will come on the scene. Perhaps, a park official. Or, even a police officer. The beach closes at sundown. It's getting close to that time. Someone must come and lock the gates."

Vinnie shouted, "Joey! Shoot the cop right through the wall!"

There was a pause, then the sound of a gunshot and a piece of plastic exploded from the port-o-let inches from Fraser's head. Covering his head with his arms, he scuttled backward as Joey fired another round near the first. And a third.

"Gotcha!" Vinnie gloated. He had moved while Joey was shooting. He was standing not ten feet away near the roof of the port-o-let, his gun trained on Fraser, who was crouching at the base of the toilet. Another shot rang out from inside the toilet, near the roof. Vinnie flinched, then shouted, "Jee-zus, Joey! Stop shootin! It's me!"

"Get me outta here!"

Vinnie spoke to Fraser. "Stand up!"

"I can't," Joey wailed.

"Shut up, Joey! I'm not talkin to you!' Then, to Fraser, "Stand up! Hands where I can see 'em."

Fraser did as instructed. If he was going to be shot, he preferred to do it on his feet, not crouching beside a reeking, leaking johnny-on-the-spot. That last shot had peppered him with bits of plastic. He hoped the wetness he felt on his cheek was blood from a cut.

Vinnie gestured with his weapon. "Where's your gun?"

"In my apartment," he admitted.

"I knew it!" he said, triumphantly. Then, he jerked his head at the toilet. "Get him outta there!"

"I can't do that." he said, calmly.

"Do it or I shoot you!"

Fraser looked him in the eye. "You're going to shoot me anyway."

"Shoot him, Vin!" Joey urged.

Vinnie stared at Fraser, judging his resolve. "OK, have it your way. This one's for you, Joey." He took aim. Fraser braced himself, preparing to launch in what he knew would be a futile effort to grab the gun. At least, he'd go down fighting.

Suddenly, Vinnie jerked and grabbed his face. He stumbled back, but he still held the gun out. Blood dripped from between the fingers of his right hand where he clutched his eye. Fraser started for him, but stopped when Vinnie recovered enough to point the gun at his face. He was bleeding profusely from a gash over his right eye. He pulled the trigger.

Fraser's head jerked as he felt the bullet whiz past his ear. Vinnie's depth perception was off. Vinnie, realizing his mistake, rubbed the blood out of his eye. With both eyes open, he took aim again. A second stone hit him in the shoulder, jerking him back. He screamed, "Joey, shoot out the bottom of that thing!" Another shot rang out from the port-o-let, striking the earth near Fraser's feet. Fraser didn't hesitate. He turned and ran toward the scrub where Dief and Dave crouched. Dave held a stone in his hand, and launched another round at Vinnie. Judging from the yelp behind him, Fraser concluded the stone had struck the target.

"Run! Run!" Fraser shouted, as he raced toward them. They turned and ran. He heard Joey wailing for Vinnie to get him out. He risked a look over his shoulder. Vinnie had started after the fleeing Fraser, then stopped. He turned back to the port-o-let. He holstered the gun, placed both hands on the side of the toilet, and began pushing.

Fraser raced to catch up with Dief and Dave, who were heading across the scrubby field for the access road, where it looped back around before eventually exiting the park. They only had a few minutes before Joey was extricated from the port-o-let, then there'd be two gunmen racing after them. And not on foot. Fraser wished in vain that he had disabled the car when he'd had the chance. He had thought about it, then decided against it. In a shooting situation, the Cadillac could have made the difference between life and death, if any of them had been shot in such an isolated venue. Wrong call.

"David, stop!" he yelled, but Dave kept going. Dief, of course, didn't hear him. Fraser put on a burst of speed and tackled the boy.

"It's Fraser," he said into his ear as the boy struggled beneath him. He stilled and Fraser let him go. He crouched low, keeping Dave down, and explained, "We have to stay off the road."

"But, it's faster," he protested. The scrub was hard-going, and tore and twisted at them as they moved through it. Dave's face was bloody from the thorns and brambles. His clothes were torn. Dief's fur was matted with prickers and there was a long scratch on his muzzle.

"They have a car. And guns. We can't outrun those on the road," Fraser pointed out. They hunkered there, catching their breaths. He met Dave's gaze. "Good arm. Thanks."

"Who are those guys?" Dave asked. "Why are they after you?"

"I should be asking you that."

His surprise was total. "Huh?"

Just then, Fraser heard the whine of a car's engine. He pulled Dave flat. Dief hunkered low. Fraser risked a quick peek over the cover of the weeds. The car moved slowly, the occupants looking out both sides for signs of their quarry. He grabbed Dief's muzzle and enunciated clearly, in low tones, "Do not move. No noise."

The car inched forward. Vinnie was at the wheel. His face was bloody, but it seemed it was minor damage. His expression was one of grim determination. Despite the cold, all the windows were down. Fraser could make out Joey in the passenger seat, a gun in his hand, half-standing out of the passenger window. Despite the circumstances, he felt a ripple of amusement. The air must be pretty ripe inside the vehicle.

He looked up. Sunset would be soon. They could outwait Vinnie and Joey. There was too much ground for them to cover to search every inch, by car or foot. The gunmen needed to flush out their quarry. If they stayed under cover, they had a chance. Darkness would be to their advantage.

Just then, a gull squawked loudly directly above their heads. Fraser looked up, sharply. It hovered there in that impossible way that gulls do. He saw the big black spot in the middle of its back. It kept cawing. He looked at Dief in exasperation. The wolf managed to look sheepish.

"There they are!" Vinnie shouted, pointing out the window. The car accelerated toward them.

Fraser spoke quickly, "I'll draw their fire. Dief, you and Dave run –!" He stood and raced away from their position.

The car was barreling down the access road. Vinnie jerked the wheel and turned into the scrub, aiming for Fraser. Just as he did, a siren sounded in the distance. Vinnie heard it, too and pulled the car back onto the road. Fraser heard a howl of protest from Joey, but Vinnie accelerated. Joey popped up out of the passenger window. He was a sight. Even as the car raced away, he uselessly emptied his gun at Fraser. The car disappeared, leaving a stream of profanity-laced threats and exhaust in its wake.

Fraser sighed in relief. Dave joined him. Dief chased the gull, almost getting it with a nearly vertical leap, as it cawed raucously at him. Fraser flagged down the patrol car that sped down the access road a minute later.

"You, Fraser?" one uniformed officer asked him.

"Yes," he said, surprised to be called by name.

The cop noticed. "Vecchio sent us. Anybody hurt?"

Fraser smiled. "No, we're fine. Thanks to you." He had just finished giving them a description of the car and occupants for the BOLO when a 1971 green Buick Riviera squealed in behind the patrol car, siren and lights flashing.

Ray approached quickly. "You OK, Benny?"

"Yes, Ray. Thanks." He guided him over to where Dief and David stood on the side of the access road. Ray wrinkled his nose as Fraser came close.

"Ray," he said, "this is David Everett. Dave, Detective Vecchio."

They nodded warily at each other. Dief yipped a greeting.

"What happened here?" Ray asked, taking in the tattered and torn appearance of all three. He sniffed again. Yeah, that smell was definitely wafting off Fraser. He took a step upwind.

"It's a long story," Fraser said, then added with a twinkle, "dude."


	17. Chapter 17

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

"Fraser, I need you to make the arrangements for a visiting -" Meg Thatcher was deep within Fraser's office before she looked up from the letter in her hand. The Constable was not, in fact, in his office. She wandered the upstairs hallway peeking in doors. She found him downstairs, in the Consulate library, a richly furnished, well-appointed room filled with comfortable chairs, reading lamps and wall-to-wall bookshelves. Turnbull kept it neat and tidy, but it was rarely, if ever, used. Or, perhaps more accurately,she never used it.

Her missing officer was seated in a chair by a window. The morning light streamed in behind him, shining on his dark hair and the book on his lap. Curious, she peered at the book from her vantage at the door. It was a large, heavy tome. The open pages were dense with small print, tables, and graphs. He was as engrossed in it as she would be in the latest Stephen King novel. She watched him read, unaccustomed to seeing such an unguarded expression on his face. She studied his features, trying to see the real man beneath the reserved mask he usually wore.

When she took up her post at the Consulate, she had read the files on him, backwards and forwards, as she had done for all the staff. For months now, she had been trying to reconcile the man in those files with the man under her command. It didn't fit with the Fraser she saw every day, the one who quietly took everything she could dish out, who performed his job superlatively, if unconventionally, who spent his down time assisting the local police, without remuneration. Those files described a nettlesome outlier, while she saw a Don Quixote in red serge, constantly tilting at urban windmills. Was it all an act, as she had first suspected? A charade to gull her, his new superior on her first command, into scrubbing clean his troublesome reputation? Or a guilty, but repentant, man attempting rehabilitation, whose foot might slip again at any moment? Or, and she could hardly credit it, could he actually be for real?

Meg was an ambitious, competent officer on a career path she hoped would someday take her to the highest levels of Ottawa. The consular assignment had been a multi-faceted opportunity - a command of her own, invaluable diplomatic experience, exposure in a major American city. She had intended to make the most of it, surpassing the expectations of the brass that had put her here. She had been warned that the plum assignment came with some baggage.

Fraser.

Because he had been on medical leave when she had first taken up her post, her first impression of him had come from her superiors and those files. Meg believed in the chain of command, in working from within the system, in sucking it up for the good of the Service. What Fraser had done, exposing the government in the Yukon dam scandal, turning in a superior officer, publicly disputing the corruption allegations surrounding his dead father, should have been handled internally, through proper channels. Instead, his actions had caused the Service to be dragged through the mud.

Oh, he had his supporters in the Force, who applauded or excused his actions. But they were primarily field officers in the Territories or the Yukon with little political clout. When he himself had become embroiled in a sex and murder scandal in Chicago last year, it seemed to underscore what his detractors had been saying all along. Inspector Margaret Thatcher, eager to shine at her first command post, had believed everything she had been told. She had put pressure on him, within legal parameters, hoping he'd resign. Or cross a line that would justify dismissal. She thought she was being fair to someone who really didn't deserve it.

But, as time passed, she had begun to doubt the veracity of the files and the motives of the superiors who encouraged his departure from the Service. Things happened which were at odds with the picture the files painted. The latest anomaly occurred when Fraser had wanted to refuse the Mayor of Chicago's commendation for apprehending the Rooftop Burglar, insisting that it was Vecchio who deserved the credit for arresting the perpetrator. She had insisted right back, pointing out that such an accolade reflected well on the Consulate, the RCMP, and their nation in general, as well as being a feather in her cap. He had apologized profusely for his obtuseness, and agreed to accept the honor. She had passed her report and the favorable newspaper clippings on to Ottawa, expecting a pat on her back and perhaps new thinking on the Fraser problem. But, there had been only silence.

So, when the firearms certification snafu had been revealed last week, it had been like a slap in the face. She had gone to bat for Fraser, trying to get an extension from Ottawa, and barring that, shipping him home to a target range before the deadline expired. She had been coldly rebuffed at every turn, leading her to the uncomfortable thought that she had not moved quickly enough to deal with the Fraser problem, from certain points of view. Or, maybe she was perceived as having switched sides. She shook her head. You're just being paranoid, she told herself, with a small sigh.

With his preternaturally acute hearing, he heard her. He glanced up, then leapt to his feet, book quickly tucked under one arm. "Sir! I didn't see you there."

She strode into the room. "What is that?"

"What is what, sir?"

"There, under your arm."

He looked down at it. "A book, sir. I was just ... uh ... reading," he finished lamely.

She held out her hands and he surrendered it to her. _Industry, Regional and Provincial Economic Trends and Forecasts in National Commodities: A Special Report._ She flipped through its densely packed pages. It fell open to where he had inserted a slip of paper as a bookmark. A graph charting the increased production of maple syrup in the post-War years caught her eye.

The tone of her voice dropped several degrees. "Is this about that maple syrup business of yours?"

"No, sir. It's a Ministry of Finance compendium, chronicling all national commodity production, regulation, trade –"

"I mean, Fraser," she said, exasperated, "are you reading this in connection with your little 'mystery'?"

He hesitated slightly. "Yes, sir."

"I told you not to pursue that."

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir." He looked pained. "Actually, sir, I believe you told me not to pursue a line of inquiry with the Federation of Quebec Maple Syrup Producers." He paused, then added helpfully. "I do not recall that you told me not to read official government reports. However, if you would prefer that I limit my reading to certain material, perhaps a list of the prohibited subjects could be –"

"Of course, I want you to read official reports. It's part of our jobs, Fraser. As you well know." It stung that his impression of her would be that of officious tyrant. Her inner voice added, _then, stop behaving like one!_

"Yes, sir."

"And, I'm not trying to tell you what you can and cannot read. Ours is a free county, after all." She frowned, and added, "Within reason ."

"Yes, sir."

She riffled the pages of the report, creating a slight breeze that ruffled her hair. When she spoke, her voice was less strident. "Have there been any new developments in the maple syrup mystery?"

"Yes, sir. There have."

"Would I want to know about them?"

He looked at her speculatively, then said. "No, sir. I don't believe that you would."

She waved a hand, dismissively. "Then, forget I asked."

"Y-yes, sir." He had been standing rigidly at attention since jumping out of the chair. That open expression was gone, replaced by what she thought of as his Mountie mask.

She sighed. "Fraser, I'm not a martinet."

"N-no, sir," he said, faltering. "I'm sorry if I implied that you were."

"Stop apologizing," she said, more sharply than she intended.

"Yes, sir. Sor –" He bit his lip and looked down at his feet.

She wished she could take the rebuke back, or at least soften the tone. But, she didn't know how, especially with a subordinate officer. She had developed an aggressive mien and a thick skin to get her where she was now. It was a hard lesson, but she had learned to suppress the softer side of her nature. A lesson that he, too, should have learned by now, if he had any ambition. Still, as his commanding officer, she had him at a disadvantage. There was no call to be abusive as well. He couldn't very well respond in kind.

She deliberately lightened her tone. "At ease, Constable."

He relaxed slightly. "Were you looking for me, sir?"

"Yes, Fraser. I was," she said, relieved to change the subject. "The assistant Undersecretary for Business Development will be visiting Chicago next month." She handed him the letter. "Please make the travel arrangements. And schedule some suitable entertainment and cultural activities while she is here. This will be her first visit to the United States."

He glanced at the letter, then back at her. "I will, sir."

"And I need the FAFFs completed for Banff asap," she began.

"I finished them this morning, sir."

"Finished?" she said, surprised. "I put them on your desk only last night."

"I was in early, sir," he explained. "I'll get them." He didn't mention that Ray had dropped him off after their delivery of Helen and Dave to the suburban station. He had changed into the spare uniform he kept in his office and started in on the FAFF forms immediately. He hadn't yet been to bed, but six cups of bark tea had provided the necessary stimulant. "Er, that is, if I am dismissed?"

"Yes," she said, absently, "put them on my desk." She was squinting at the book in her hands. She couldn't make out the fine print without her glasses. But a large pie chart caught her eye. Ten million pounds of maple syrup were kept stored in warehouses in Quebec as part of the government's grand plan to stabilize price and supply. She reread that. Ten million pounds. Global Strategic Maple Syrup Reserve, indeed! Perhaps, she had been too hasty in dismissing Fraser's interest in his 'mystery.' She sat in the chair he had vacated, and turned a page.

After a few minutes, she felt something and looked up. Fraser was watching her from the precise spot where she had stood watching him. He saw that she was aware of his presence. With a determined air, he crossed to her and reached out a hand. He was holding her glasses.

As she reached for them, they spoke at the same time.

"Sir, I think you were wrong –" – "Fraser, I think you were right–"

They stopped, then both said at the same time:

"What did you say, Fraser?" – "What did you say, sir?"

Fraser recovered first, and said hastily, "You first, sir."

She gave him a sour look, but complied. "I said, I think you were ... not wrong."

"Ah," he said, then paused, savoring the moment.

"What did_ you_ say, Fraser?" she said, impatiently.

"That's not important, sir," he said. Thatcher could discern no expression on his face, but was that a twinkle in his eye? "What is important is that you think I'm ... not wrong." Before she could react, he said, quickly, "That is, I mean ... what did _you_ mean, sir?"

She donned the glasses and read aloud, "'At any given time, the Federation of Maple Syrup Producers stores over ten million pounds of maple syrup in a secret location in rural Quebec.'" She looked up. "Ten million pounds!"

He looked down at her. He rarely saw her bespectacled. She usually snatched them off when other people entered the room. The glasses suited her, emphasizing the rich chocolate of her eyes and the heart shape of her face. He nodded. "The Global Strategic Maple Syrup Reserve is a significant part of our national economy."

"I know that. Maple syrup is also intrinsic to our heritage."

"I pointed that out to Detective Vecchio just the other day, sir."

She looked down at the book in her lap then up at his earnest face. She gestured to the adjoining chair. "Sit down, Fraser."

He sat, stiffly.

"Tell me," she said.

He took a moment to gather his thoughts, then related a condensed version of the murders of Albert Ames and Brian Mosely and the attempt on David Everett's life. She was silent throughout his recitation .

Fraser said, in conclusion, "Detective Vecchio believes that organized crime is behind the violence. In retaliation for the presumed theft of the maple syrup by Brian and Al from them."

Thatcher was appalled. "They killed two people for stealing what they themselves had already stolen?"

"According to Ray, in Chicago, there are two things written in stone. One, you never, _ever _steal from the Mob." He paused, tugging at his ear. "But, we don't know for a certainty that the maple syrup_ was_ stolen, sir. Or, if it was, by whom. I have been unable to ascertain the source of the supply." He steepled his fingers and continued. "The young men in question had apparently pilfered 10 fifty-five gallon drums of premium maple syrup, part of which consisted of Quebecois Dark Reserve, the most expensive and exclusive maple syrup in Canada. That large a quantity of maple syrup, if stolen from a retail or even a wholesale outlet, should have been reported to law enforcement on one side of the border or other. The Quebecois Dark, especially."

"That's why you wanted to contact the Federation," she mused. "To see if there were any losses_ before _the syrup reached the retail or wholesale market."

"Yes, sir," he said, looking at her. "But, you were ... not wrong." There was that twinkle again. "I realize now that this is a politically sensitive issue, and that such an inquiry would be likely to raise ... uh ... hackles." He made a face. "Especially, coming from me."

So, he did understand he was a pariah in political circles. Maybe, he wasn't as naive as he appeared. "Hmmmm," she said, thoughtfully. "Perhaps, I was hasty." She made a decision. "I have a friend in Ottawa. She can be discreet." She sat up straight. "I'll make a careful inquiry."

"Thank you, sir."

"What's the other thing?"

"Sir?"

"You said there were two things written in stone in Chicago. What's the other thing?"

"Oh," he said, surprised. "Never cross the Donnelly Brothers."

"Who are the Donnelly Brothers?"

"Criminals, sir."

"Did you?"

"Did I what?"

"Cross them," she said, exasperated.

He tugged at his ear. "I suppose I did. But, they're in jail now, so I imagine that's no longer written in stone. Although, if it isn't now, how could it ever have been in the first place?" He looked confused. "I'll have to ask Ray."

She looked at him. "What is your next step?"

Fraser straightened in his chair. "I'm meeting Ray after my shift ends. We will investigate the victims. Perhaps, find the link that leads to their killers." He added, "And to the source of the maple syrup."

She spoke briskly. "After you finish the arrangements for the Deputy's visit, you are dismissed." At his surprised look, she said, "You and Vecchio are in a unique position to follow up these leads. That must take priority over other duties."

He lowered his voice and leaned in closer. "So, this is a job for the International Joint Task Force of the Canadian Consulate and the Chicago Police Department?"

She looked blank for a moment, then said, "Oh, right. The ... uh ... International Joint Task Force of the Chicago Consulate, I mean, Canadian ..." She grimaced, "that's a mouthful." She thought. "Perhaps, we should just refer to it as the IJTF."

Fraser nodded in agreement. "Ray wants to print that on T-shirts." At her alarmed look, he said, "Just joking, sir."

She smiled, and just as quickly, it was gone. But, for a moment, Fraser had felt like the sun had come out from behind a cloud. She stood. He followed suit. She handed him the book.

"Carry on, Constable," she said, and exited the library. Fraser returned it to the shelves, then walked back to his office. He made the travel plans for the visiting dignitary, gathered up Dief, went home and changed to civilian clothes, and, to Ray's surprise, was at the 27th by noon.

Their first stop was the squalid rented room that Albert Ames had lived in. There was barely room for a bed, and no storage space. Not even a closet. The contents were typical for a twenty year old with limited means living in one room. Piles of dirty laundry, sheets that hadn't been changed in weeks, empty pizza boxes and takeout containers dominated the room. No reading material, except for a couple of adult magazines, which a red-faced Fraser discovered under the bed and hastily returned there. He and Dief sniffed away, but found nothing that hinted of maple syrup or anything to help with the quest. All Ray could discern was the stink of dirty socks. Fraser hadn't even found anything worth licking. The super had nothing to add. Al paid by the week and was one week ahead. None of his 'neighbors' knew anything. Or rather, none of them would open their doors to them.

They moved on to Brian Mosely's address, another rented room on the North Side. This one was a little bigger, a little neater, but otherwise, depressingly similar to Al's. Dave had not known Brian well. Dave had been Al's friend and Al had been Brian's. Dave had told them that he knew Al from high school, before they had both dropped out. Al, though older, had been held back a grade. Brian and Al had served in the same community service program, picking up trash for three months along Highway 94.

Dave knew none of the details of the origin of the maple syrup barrels. Nonetheless, it was clear from his tale that Brian had been the mastermind, so to speak, of the maple syrup caper. Still, there were no stores of maple syrup in barrels, bottles, or jars in his tiny room. And no sign of where they might be, where they had come from or whether they still existed. No helpful diary or calendar, no paystubs, no receipts, no paperwork at all. Ray theorized a rented storage unit or garage somewhere where the barrels had been kept and decanted to smaller containers. But nothing on the premises supported that theory. If there was such a storage space, it would take some real shoe leather to find it. Ray looked around the room, depressed. It might come to that.

Unlike Al, Brian at least had a closet. Fraser squatted by it, sifting through the few pairs of shoes. He picked up a well-worn work boot and examined the bottom. Fraser sniffed deeply, then held it out to Dief for his own olfactory analysis. He yipped and made noises.

"Yes, I think so, too," Fraser said, thoughtfully. He sniffed again. He took out his knife and scraped the bottom of the shoe onto his handkerchief. He dipped a finger into the scrapings and held it up to the light before touching the tip of his tongue to it.

"Eeewww," Ray said, though he knew it was a lost cause.

Fraser looked at Dief. "Creosote, sawdust..." He took another taste, then nodded, "Rust. Very high ferrous content. And, definitely, maple syrup." The wolf woofed in agreement. He carefully folded the scrapings into the handkerchief and returned it to his pocket.

Ray, who had just finished going through all the pockets of Brian's meager supply of clothes, sat on the bed. "I went over the Camaro this morning with the techs. There was nothing in it, not even a gum wrapper. It looked like it had just been washed and vacuumed. I bet he kept it off the streets, garaged it somewhere. If we find the garage, we'll find the syrup, I'm thinking." He sighed. "The kid must have loved that car. Shame about the bloodstains." He rubbed tired eyes. "If Guardino wins at auction, he'd be getting a sweet ride." He looked around at the sad remains of a young man's short life. "Maybe, ol' Brian would appreciate it going to a good home."

"Perhaps," Fraser said. Ray and Louis, and apparently Brian, had deep connections to their classic automobiles, a phenomenon that Fraser simply did not understand. "I'm glad I didn't dent it, then," he said, lightly.

Ray smiled. "Me, too." He stood up. "You hungry?"

They found a nearby restaurant. Fraser tried the pancake syrup for completeness' sake, but pronounced it Mrs. Butterworth's. They lingered over coffee after the meal. Ray was operating on a couple of hours sleep, Fraser on none.

"You said, creosote, right?" Ray asked. "Rust - iron ore. Sawdust - timber. Put them all together ... well, they don't spell MOTHER." He sipped coffee. "Brian worked the docks. But, not the pleasure boat marina where Dave worked."

"Logical," Fraser said, approvingly.

"They're a lot of docks on Lake Michigan. Where do we start?"

"The one place that holds all the answers, Ray."

"Church?"

Fraser gave him a strange look. "The library."

"Oh," Ray groused. "I'd rather go to church."

He finished his coffee. "There's a branch of the Chicago Public Library two blocks from here."

Ray was surprised. Fraser lived on the other side of town. "You been there?"

"No," he said. "I've memorized all the branch locations. You never know when you'll have an emergency." He paused. "We need the map from your car." They retrieved the map of the _City of Chicago And Environs _and continued walking.

Ray was silent on the way. As they approached the glass-fronted doors of the imposing stone structure, Fraser stopped. A large sign, with a figure of a dog with a red line through it, proclaimed in large type, _No dogs allowed, except service dogs. _

"Oh, dear," he said, then leaned down and spoke to Diefenbaker. "I'm sorry but you'll have to wait out here."

Dief grumbled.

"Yes, I know you're a wolf, but that is implied." As Dief made a complaining noise, he threw his hands up in exasperation. "We go through this _every _time!"

Dief, sulking, obeyed the restriction, and settled himself next to the marble lion lining the walk. He assumed the same pose as the feline statue.

Fraser held the door open for Ray.

He hung back, "I'll wait out here with Dief. Keep him company."

"That's not necessary, Ray. He'll be fine."

A woman holding a small boy by the hand thanked Fraser as she walked through the door he held open. Several more library patrons did the same.

Still, Ray hung back. "Go ahead, Benny. I'm fine out here."

He let go of the door and it swung shut. "Ray?"

Ray sauntered over to where Dief was perched, and leaned against the wall. He didn't meet Fraser's eyes.

Fraser came closer. "Is there something wrong?" It was obvious that there was. Ray looked extremely uncomfortable, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

In a low voice, he said, "I'm not allowed in there."

"Nonsense, Ray. It's a public library. It's open to everyone."

"No, you don't understand." He paused as a man with a little girl passed by him on the way in. When they were out of earshot, he continued, "I'm banned. For life."

Fraser chuckled. "Good one, Ray. Come on." Then, seeing that his friend was not smiling, continued, "Oh. You're serious!" At his nod, he asked, "Why?"

Ray kept his eyes on his shuffling feet. "Me and Peggy Ann Malina got ... caught ... in the Ancient History section."

"Caught?"

"You know - _caught_."

Fraser was confused. "Were you playing hide and seek?"

"Hide and seek? We were fifteen years old!" Ray rolled his eyes as he still looked perplexed, then said. "We were making out, Benny!"

The look on Fraser's face would have been comical if Ray had been in a comical frame of mind. "In the library?!" he said, aghast. He couldn't have looked more shocked if Ray had confessed to participating in an orgy in the nave of St. Peter's Basilica. On Easter Sunday.

"Yes, in the library," he repeated, testily. "I was fifteen, for chrissake!"

"Oh, Ray," Fraser said, shaking his head. "Ray, Ray, Ray."

But Ray was in confessional mode. "It was getting pretty hot and heavy there, you know_," _he made vaguely suggestive gestures with his hands, "when, all of a sudden, this old battleaxe of a librarian came round the corner. She marched Peggy Ann and me out to the front desk, ripped up our library cards right in our faces, then banned us for life!"

"That's horrible!"

"It was, actually," he said, touched by his empathy.

"_In flagrante delicto _in a ... a ... library!" Fraser clucked his tongue. "How could you?"

"I was fifteen!" he said, defensively.

Suddenly, the implications of his confession struck Fraser. "You can't mean ... you aren't saying ... that you have not set foot in a library - any library - since you were fifteen years old?!"

"Well, um ... yeah."

Stunned, the grandson of librarians rocked back on his heels. "Huh!" he managed, at a momentary loss. Then, with an air of determination, he said, "Right. Well, then. There's no time like the present. Come on." He held the door open, again.

Ray shook his head, and stayed put.

"Ray, that was eighteen years ago! It's time."

More patrons passed between them while Fraser held the door.

"Fraser, I am not going in there!" said the Immovable Object.

"Ray, you have to get past this," replied the Irresistible Force.

"I have survived without a library for eighteen years. I am not going in there, now!" He crossed his arms on his chest, defiantly. "And you can't make me." Just as he said it, a small group of children, preschoolers, were being herded up the steps by two young women. A little boy balked at the door and refused to go forward as the other children filed past him.

"Timmy, come along," a young woman, obviously his teacher, pleaded. The rest of the group continued on, shepherded by the other woman.

"No!"

"Timmy, you have to. Come on," she wheedled, taking his hand, "the library is a fun place."

Timmy yanked his hand out of hers, and crossed his arms over his chest, his lower lip jutting out, stubbornly. "No, I don't wanna!" He trotted over to Ray and Dief. "And you can't make me!"

The young woman stared at them, exasperated. Then, turned and looked at Fraser, who was still holding the door.

Fraser fixed Ray with a steely gaze and then, looked pointedly at Timmy. "Ray," he said, firmly.

He looked at him, at the teacher, who was very pretty, at Dief, who was very amused, and finally, at the little boy. He peeled himself away from the wall, resignedly. "Come on, Timmy. The library is a fun place." After a moment, the boy followed him.

"Thank you," the teacher said, smiling at Ray. He brightened and returned the smile.

"You're welcome," he said, motioning her through the door. Fraser held the door for Timmy and Ray, then entered himself. They passed the front desk where the librarians looked at them curiously, having observed a commotion outside.

Ray blanched as he saw one old lady, her snow-white hair skinned up in a tight bun, frown at him. He quickened his pace, and caught up to Fraser who was marching on, a man with a mission.

"That's her!" he said, in a fierce whisper.

"Who?"

"The battleaxe," he said, looking over his shoulder. She was still staring at him. He glanced away, guiltily. "I think she recognized me."

"She probably has your picture posted on the wall of the Library's Most Wanted," Fraser deadpanned. His lips quirked at Ray's alarmed reaction.

. "Ha ha, Benny," he muttered. "What are we doing here, anyway?"

"Research. Ah," he said, pointing to the sign that said Periodicals Section.

A few minutes later, Ray's city map was spread out on the table of a small reading room they had to themselves. Fraser, oblivious to her flirtations, had borrowed a ruler and several crayons from an attractive librarian in the children's section, and was now bent over the map.

"The marina where Dave worked is here." He pointed. "The boat he borrowed on the night in question was docked there." He made an "X" with a black crayon. "Once he cleared the jetty, his course was northwest at a speed of approximately 20 knots." His finger traced an invisible line. "They had been cruising about one hour when Al sighted the first barrel. Here." He marked an "X" with a blue crayon. "Now, Ray, what was the wind speed and direction on the night in question? Ray?" He looked over his shoulder. "Ray?"

Ray had several newspapers spread out before him on the adjoining table. He was intent on reading and didn't respond.

"Ray!"

"Huh?"

"The newspaper. What does it say?"

"Ebert gives_ Apollo 13 _thumbs up, way up. Thumbs down on _Showgirls_."

"Ray, the wind?"

"Oh, right." He shuffled through the papers. "The Sun-Times says 10-15 mph from the west." He grabbed another paper. "The Tribune agrees on the direction but says 15-20."

"So, a prevailing westerly wind would move the surface water of the Lake to the east," Fraser studied the map, thinking out loud, "and the barrels with it." Murmuring to himself, he continued, "Now, assuming the barrels went into the water no more than an hour before Dave and Al arrived ... granted, that's a big assumption, but too much lead time, and shifts in the wind, the speed, or the current could push the barrels too far off course ... plus, the longer they're in the water, the more likely they could be intercepted by someone else ... and assuming that they were launched from a dock or pier rather than a boat ... because, honestly, if it was a boat, we'd have no hope of finding it ..." He rubbed his chin. "Sure, so many assumptions can be like a house of cards, but, what can you do?" He shrugged, philosophically. "So, that would put the point of origin of the barrels approximately here!" He drew a red "X" with a flourish. He looked triumphantly at Ray, who wasn't paying the least bit of attention.

"Ray!"

He looked up from his reading. "What?"

Fraser pointed to the map. "X marks the spot."

He stood and stretched, then looked at the map. He squinted at the mark in the Lake on the paper map, took a look at the street names in the vicinity, and thought hard. Then, it clicked.

"Brannigan's Wharf." He blew out a breath. "Rough place, Benny. I had a few close calls there when I worked Vice." He pulled on his coat. "You ready?" He peered out the door and around the corner. "Coast is clear! Let's go! " He darted down the hall and out the front door, where Dief greeted him enthusiastically.

Fraser followed at a more sedate pace, returning the borrowed supplies and thanking the staff for their assistance. He was inwardly amused at the contrasting images of two Rays: one, eager to rush in to the rough and tumble world of the urban dock scene, and the other, who fled the wrath of an elderly librarian. Then, he remembered the time when he was seven, and spilled his chocolate milk on the traveling library's only copy of _Treasure Island. _Even now, more than twenty five years later, his own close encounter with an angry elderly librarian sent a shiver down his spine, and he realized he'd have rather faced a polar bear, hungry after its winter hibernation, than his grandmother that day. He hurried to catch up with Ray.


	18. Chapter 18

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**

Ray turned the key and started the engine. He let it idle for a few minutes, then turned on the heat. It was a frigid night. He sipped his now cold coffee for the caffeine effect.

The Riv was parked between stacks of shipping containers, the big kind that were loaded on to ocean-going vessels. The spot afforded him a view of the Wharf, but concealed the car from any casual onlookers. It was nearly two am. Business on the wharf had finally died down, though he had been surprised that it was active till midnight. A seedy-looking establishment called the Redeye Bar had been bustling (for a weeknight) but it, too, was slowing up. Even the working girls, shivering in their skimpy outfits, had long since gone home.

Fraser slept like a babe in the seat beside him. He had wanted to take first watch or at least flip a coin for it, but Ray had put his foot down. He, at least, had managed a few hours sleep in his own bed after their return from the train station in Aurora. Fraser was running on fumes. Dief snored loudly in the back.

He sipped coffee as he waited. There was a steady exodus of unsteady patrons from the Redeye. They made their way alone or in pairs to their vehicles, many of which were motorcycles. Ray shivered at the thought of riding a bike in this weather. He had put a down payment on a Harley-Davidson motorcycle with his first paycheck and rode that baby everywhere all summer long. The love affair had lasted only until the weather turned.

The neon sign went dark. Another twenty minutes, and he saw the waitresses leave in a huddle. Then, the bartender. He fussed with locks and alarm system before walking, head down, to his car. Ray glanced at his watch. It was 2:25 am. He reached over and shook his partner's shoulder. Fraser's eyes flew open. Then, he sat up straight, instantly alert.

"Nice nap?"

"Yes, Ray."

"The bar closed," he said, turning off the engine. "Time to boogie."

They exited the Riv quietly, Fraser holding the seat forward for Dief. Brannigan's Wharf was a big complex, housing several warehouses, the bar, a boatworks, a dock with large and small commercial watercraft tethered. This was no sailing marina for yachts and pleasure boats, but a real working waterfront. The gentrification that was creeping in on some lakeside neighborhoods hadn't found this place yet. Ray was keeping a lookout for nighttime security in the form of a rent-a-cop, but none was apparent. Still, they kept to the shadows.

The purpose of this field trip was to scope out the Wharf in the wee hours, the same time of night that Brian Mosely might have dropped ten barrels of maple syrup into the water for his partner, Albert Ames, to retrieve. Ray knew it was a longshot, but they had little else to go on. The opacity of the ownership records of the City's commercial docks, a notorious hotbed of smuggling, prostitution, drug-dealing, and the like, was legendary. There would be no warrants on the strength of what evidence they had. A daytime canvass was the next step, but Ray knew that would yield little information and even less cooperation, if not downright hostility, especially if there was a mob connection down here.

"What are we looking for, Benny?" he asked, in a low tone.

"Anything and everything."

"In other words," he complained, "you don't know."

"Yes."

Diefenbaker was nosing the dock, going back and forth and in circles, fascinated by the rich array of odors. They walked the length of the wharf, past the bar and the boatworks to the last warehouse which jutted out over the water. A tugboat was moored in front of the warehouse, facing out into the vastness of the Lake, but it was dark and silent. Water slapped against the pilings. Ray peered down. He said, "It must be low tide."

"Actually, Ray," Fraser said, "the Great Lakes are essentially non-tidal."

"No," he protested. "I've seen the tides change."

Fraser kept his tone low, but conversational. "It's a common misconception. The water levels in the Great Lakes do vary, of course. Depending on precipitation or water table levels. And, variations occur with the seasons." He paused. "True tides, that is, changes in water level due to the gravitational force of the sun and moon, are barely measurable on the Great Lakes. No more than five centimeters." He shone his penlight down in the narrow space between the pier and the warehouse. "The greater fluctuations in lake levels - what most people think of as the changing tide - are produced by wind and barometric pressure changes."

"Thank you, Mr. Know-It-All," Ray said, though he actually found this episode of Fraser Facts interesting, for once. Not that he'd ever admit it. "I bet you got that out of a library book."

"Indeed I did, Ray."

Ray sized up the pier, the warehouse, and the other buildings. He leaned over and spat. As he watched the spittle plop into the water, and the rings that emanated from it, he said, "Actually, the water only seems lower here because the warehouse is built up higher than the other buildings along here."

Fraser eyed the lines of the structure. "You're right, Ray. Hmmm."

"Hmmm what?"

"It would appear that a small boat or, perhaps, a barge could be loaded, or unloaded from underneath this warehouse." He pointed at the tugboat, "And then towed out into the Lake without being observed."

Ray saw what it meant. "Mighty convenient for a certain type of cargo."

From where they stood, the space was too narrow and the angle too steep to see under the warehouse. Fraser shone his flashlight along the edge, illuminating a wooden ladder affixed to the pier. He exchanged glances with Ray, then turned off the light.

He went first, climbing quietly down the wooden rungs. Ray followed, wincing as he felt a splinter lodge in the palm of his hand. All he could hear was the lapping of the lake against the pier. It echoed loudly in the confined space. When he reached the end of the ladder, he felt around with one foot and found a narrow wooden ledge. It was wet. He stepped on to it, carefully. Fraser shined the penlight onto a fully loaded barge floating under the warehouse. With his usual grace, he stepped off the ledge and on to the gunnel, then down into the barge. He navigated a narrow passage between cargo rates to an open space, about five feet by ten feet in the dead center of the barge. He illuminated the way for Ray to follow. Ray stepped on to the barge, and nearly took a header as the current rocked the vessel.

He regained his balance, then took a look around. There was a boathouse effect formed in the area under the warehouse. It was open in the front. He could see the back of the tug and the Lake beyond. The pier was on the left; the rear and right sides were enclosed in the same weathered planking that the warehouse was made of. He joined Fraser in the open space in the middle. Cargo was stacked everywhere else under heavy duty tarpaulins. Without cutting the tightly lashed ropes binding the tarps, Ray couldn't tell what was there, except it appeared to be square or rectangular in shape. Crates and boxes, presumably.

"I don't see any barrels," he said, in a low voice to Fraser. "Is this incoming or outgoing freight?"

"I don't know," he replied, shining the light around the cargo space. "But, you're right. There are no barrels."

Ray peeled up one of the tarps. "Gimme your knife. I think there's a loose slat here I can pry off."

"Don't we need a warrant to open that?" Fraser asked, merely as a matter of form. He was already bending to reach his boot sheath.

"Nah, a knife works better."

Fraser doused the light.

"Wha –? " Ray began, then heard it himself. A car engine. His head snapped around. They were standing nearly at water level, below the level of the pier. In the narrow space between the bottom of the warehouse and the top of the pier, he saw a pair of headlights. Correction - more than one pair. The vehicles were coming their way, too fast for them to get out from under without being seen. Four cars pulled up in front of the warehouse. Ray heard several male voices, and counted at least seven pairs of feet. He hunkered down next to Fraser, and drew his gun. He let out the breath he was holding when the entourage entered the warehouse by the main entrance, without taking notice of their presence.

Interior lights blazed on. Light filtered through the loose floorboards of the warehouse, patchily illuminating the barge below. Fraser climbed on to a stack of crates, assuming a wide stance to keep his balance, as the barge rocked gently. He peered through the slats overhead, but the angle was wrong to see the people who had entered. He could, however, hear clearly.

"Where's Frankie?" a man asked.

"He'll be here," another answered. "Relax."

"Easy for you to say," the first man replied. Fraser recognized the gravelly voice of Vinnie, the gunman from Oak Park Beach. He whispered that fact to Ray, who was keeping an eye on the pier and the tugboat.

"What's Frankie wanna talk to us about?" a new voice asked, nervously. Fraser thought that was Vinnie's partner, though it was hard to judge, given that he had mostly heard Joey's voice emanating from inside a toilet.

"Whaddya think?" Vinnie said.

"That wasn't our fault!"

"Shut up, Joey," he said, wearily.

There was a silence. Fraser looked down at Ray. He was crouched behind a crate, gun arm braced on the top of it, watching the pier. Fraser filled him in on the conversation so far.

"We gotta call this in, Benny," he whispered. "We need backup."

Fraser agreed. He was about to climb down when another set of headlights appeared. He froze in place. The vehicle pulled up in front of the warehouse, close to their position. Two sets of feet exited the front doors of the automobile. One opened the back door. A third pair of feet stepped out.

"You two, wait out here," said the owner of those feet in a tone of absolute authority. "This won't take long."

"Yessir," one man replied.

"Sure, Boss," said the other. He stood on the pier, close to the ladder and lit a cigarette. The other man hurried to open the warehouse door for the "Boss", then joined the smoker. He lit his own cigarette. Ray's stomach tightened as he smelled the smoke. Their escape route was blocked.

Fraser didn't dare move. Stuck on the crate, he strained to hear what was happening above him. Ray kept an eye on the smokers and stayed very, very still.

Fraser heard a chorus of greetings: "Frankie!" "Hey, Frankie." "Frankie's here." "Good night for it, eh, Boss?"

"Hello, boys. Yeah, great night. Perfect weather." The heavy tread of Frankie's footsteps sounded above as he stepped into the center of the warehouse, near where Fraser stood underneath.

"Vinnie. Joey." Frankie said, without inflection.

"Frankie! Hey, you're looking good! Is that a new –?"

"Shut up, Joey!" Vinnie said, fiercely.

"I was just –"

"Just shut up," Vinnie said, quietly. Then, he said, "Frank, I'm glad to see you. Look, we need a little more time."

"You've had time, Vin. You find the kid yet?"

"Not yet, Frank," he said, placatingly. "He dropped outta sight. Hasn't been back to the marina, or anyplace he usually hangs out."

"You got the rest of the goods?"

"Yeah, right where Mosely told us. Not much left. A couple of jars." He paused. "I got guys watching the spot in case the kid shows up."

"Maybe, he got outta town already."

"I don't think so. We put guys at the bus and train stations and the airport pretty fast." He added, "The kid don't have no car. No money, either." A pause. "We'll find him," he repeated.

A pause, then Frankie continued in a conversational tone. "What about this other guy, the off-duty cop?"

"I don't know that he_ was_ a cop, Frankie. I was just guessin." Vinnie's voice acquired a pleading tone. "Coulda been just a civilian."

"So, 'just a civilian' with no piece and a kid throwing rocks can take on two of my men and get the better of them? Is that what you're telling me?" Frankie's voice dripped with scorn.

"There was the dog, too!" Joey put in.

"Shut up, Joey!" Vinnie said, sharply. The voices were now loud enough that Ray could hear.

Frankie's voice grew ice-cold. "That's right. The big white dog. The K-9." There was an ominous pause. "Except there ain't no white dog in the K-9s in this city. Only German Shepherds."

"Maybe it was a ghost dog," a new voice said, snickering. Several men joined in his laughter.

Vinnie's voice was desperate now. "We'll get em, Frank. We just need –"

"You need?! What about what I need?!" His voice rose. "_You're_ the one who brought Mosely in on_ my_ operation. You vouched for him! And he stole from me. My personal stock! Mine!" Fraser heard him thump his chest. " Now, you lost the kid! You lost the cop! You lost the dog!" He paused. "Joey, here, still stinks!"

"I took a shower –!"

"Shut up, Joey," Vinnie said, hopelessly. "Frank, come on. You and me, we go way back, when we were kids –"

"Coupla kids made a laughingstock outta me! _You_ made a laughingstock outta me!" Frankie shouted. "Nobody does that to Frankie Nardo! Nobody!"

Ray started. Frankie "The Toothpick" Nardo! Not good. Not good at all!

Vinnie shouted, "No, Frank, wait–!"

"Do it, boys!"

Fraser heard a barrage of sounds in rapid succession: the crisp snap of Frank Nardo's fingers; two screams; a hail of gunshots; two thuds, nearly right over his head. Through the slats, one brown eye stared vacantly down at him. He reared back, nearly losing his balance before recovering. There was raucous laughter inside the warehouse. Ray tugged at his pants leg. Fraser climbed down as quietly as he could. The two men outside the warehouse continued to smoke. One said, "Bon voyage, boys." They laughed.

Ray whispered in his ear. "That's Toothpick Nardo, Benny. He won't think twice about plugging a couple of cops. We gotta get outta here."

"Understood," he whispered back. "But, barring jumping into freezing water, swimming our way out of the boathouse, past the tugboat, around the warehouse, then back to shore, without being observed ..." He pointed at the smokers. "We have to get past those two."

"Yeah," Ray said, assessing the best way to take out two armed goons without alerting the entire pack of armed goons. Just then, heavy footsteps sounded above them. The warehouse door opened and two feet walked unhurriedly back to the car. The smoking men hastily threw their cigarettes into the water and hurried to the vehicle. "We going home now, Boss?" the driver said. Frank Nardo grunted in the affirmative and climbed in. The men got in and the engine turned over. The headlights shone briefly on Ray and Fraser's faces, then turned around and drove back off the pier.

"Thank you, God," Ray whispered. Now was their chance, while the rest of the goons were still in the warehouse. "Go, Benny."

Several things happened at once. A loud mechanical noise sounded; a trapdoor in the floor above them sprang open; light flooded the barge, lighting the crates, Fraser, Ray, and the surrounding water; Ray shoved Fraser, hard, in the back, causing him to stumble forward; and two bodies tumbled down into the clear space of the deck, landing right on top of Ray. He went down under them like a sack of potatoes. Fraser recovered his balance, but before he could take a step to aid Ray, a head poked down through the trapdoor. He dropped and scuttled back in the narrow passage between the crates.

"Bullseye!" the protruding head exclaimed, laughing. "That's a full load now!" The head withdrew but the trapdoor remained open, the light from above fully illuminating the space below. Several more heads appeared and there were catcalls and derisive remarks directed at the bodies. From his vantage, Fraser heard more footsteps above, and outside as some of the men exited the warehouse and bustled about the pier and the tugboat. He peered between the crates. He couldn't make out his friend in the tangle of bodies. He had no idea whether Ray was cleverly using the bodies on top of him as cover, or was out cold, perhaps even now suffocating under the literal dead weight of two large men. Or, the unwelcome thought intruded, was dead already, his neck having snapped on impact. He ruthlessly pushed that line of thought away and resisted the nearly overwhelming urge to rush to his friend. Breaking cover wouldn't help Ray. Breaking cover would only get both of them killed. He had to stay hidden. It was the logical thing to do.

Fraser never felt less logical in his life.

An engine cranked and turned over. Not a car. It was the tugboat. Lights blazed on the boat as men scurried on and around it. The engine raced, the water in the boathouse churned, the barge rocked violently. Fraser inhaled diesel exhaust and suppressed the urge to cough.

"Wooof!"

He looked up. Dief poked his head over the side of the pier. With a growing sense of urgency, Fraser snatched his notebook out of his breast pocket and quickly scrawled, "BRAN WRF BARG TPK NARDO." Between his haste and the pitching of the boat, his writing was nearly illegible. But there was no time. The engine roared and belched smoke as the tugboat pulled forward. The fifty foot cable connecting them snapped taut. As he tossed the notebook up to Dief, the barge lurched forward, causing his aim to fall short. Dief lunged, barely catching the notebook in his teeth.

"Thatcher. Go." Fraser mouthed.

Dief stared at him, distress evident in his eyes.

"Go!"

The wolf went. Frazer squeezed himself into the narrow space between the gunnel and the crates. The barge cleared the boathouse slowly. He could hear men calling between the pier and the tugboat, but dared not lift his head. As the barge cleared the structure, the tugboat turned slightly, heading into the channel. Then, it increased speed, quickly leaving the lights of the warehouse behind. The tug's running lights faintly illuminated the barge, but the stacked crates and the shadows they cast obscured the area where the bodies lay.

Fraser moved. He shoved Joey's body unceremoniously off of Vinnie, then pulled Vinnie off of Ray. He knelt beside his friend. He was lying on his back, eyes closed, arms outflung, unconscious or -

"Is he dead?"

Fraser started violently and nearly fell over. "Dad!" He took a shaky breath. "Don't_ do_ that!"

"Sorry, son," Robert Fraser said.

Ray's overcoat was bunched up around his neck. He pushed it aside, fumbling for a pulse.

"Well?"

"I thought you could tell me," he said, testily.

"It doesn't work that way."

Fraser was rewarded with a pulse. Slow, but regular. "He's alive," he said, closing his eyes for a moment, in relief.

He stood, looking over the tops of crates to the tugboat, before risking the penlight. Ray was utterly limp, but he noted the steady rise and fall of his chest. He held the light in his teeth, and examined him with gentle hands. There was a lump on the back of his head, but the skin wasn't broken. He moved down his torso and limbs. No obvious fractures or wounds. While there was an alarming amount of blood on his overcoat, it appeared not to belong to Ray.

Fraser rocked back on his haunches. He looked back toward Brannigan's Wharf. The lights of the warehouse were still visible, but were receding rapidly. Even if he dropped into the frigid water now, he'd never make it back to shore. Certainly, not with an injured man in tow.

"You're in a pickle, son."

"Tell me something I don't know, Dad." He gently slapped Ray's cheek, calling his name over and over. He kept looking toward the tugboat, but there was a fifty foot length of cable between the boat and where it attached at the front of the barge. They were in the middle of the barge, another twenty five feet further away, and hidden behind the stacked crates that filled most of the vessel. The rumble of the engine was loud and carried over the water, loud enough to obscure the sound of voices on the barge. The men on the boat seemed to be content to stay in the relative warmth of the wheelhouse. Fraser didn't blame them for that. It was a cold night, and the wind was biting.

"They're going to dump the bodies in the Lake, son."

"I know, Dad."

"They'll stop the boat and come back here to do that, you know."

"I _know_, Dad."

Ray stirred. "Lemme sleep, Ma," he mumbled, twisting away from Fraser's ministrations.

"Rise and shine, Yank! Rise and shine!" Bob Fraser called, loudly.

"Rise 'n shine, y'self," he muttered. "Fi' mo mintz."

Fraser and the ghost of his father exchanged stunned glances. He shook Ray's shoulder. "Ray, it's Benny. Wake up."

His eyes fluttered, then he focused blearily on Fraser's face. "Benny?" He flicked his eyes around. "Where's Ma?"

"She's not here, Ray," he assured him. "It's just you and me." He gestured vaguely over his shoulder. "See?"

"Yank! Hey, Yank!" his father, waved his arms. Fraser held his breath, but Ray didn't react.

"How do you feel, Ray?"

"I've been better," he muttered, then tried to sit up. "Whoa," he said, reeling.

Fraser caught his shoulders and eased him back down on the deck. "Take it easy. We're safe for the moment."

Ray put a shaky hand to the back of his head. "Who hit me?" His head throbbed.

"They did."

He turned his head, painfully and took in the crumpled corpses lying a few feet away. "Oh." With a wry twist of his lips, he said, "You gotta watch that temper of yours, Benny. It'll get you in real trouble someday."

"Oh, no! I didn't –" he protested, then he realized Ray was pulling his leg. He took it as a sign that his friend was recovering. "Do you have your mobile phone?"

Ray brightened and reached into his overcoat pocket. He grabbed his cell phone and pulled. The antenna came away with a piece of the phone dangling from it. He reached into the pocket again. Then, he pulled out another part. And another. The device was smashed to pieces. That explained the sharp pain in his right hip. He had landed on the phone. Hard. "Nuts!"

Fraser was philosophical. "I doubt that there would have been a signal anyway."

His father stood on the deck, hands on his hips, breathing deeply. "Ah! Smell that salt air!"

"It's freshwater," Fraser muttered.

"I'll take some water," Ray said.

"I don't have any," he said. "Sorry." He glared at his father.

Ray closed his eyes, letting the odd exchange go, then tried sitting up again, this time successfully, though he lowered his head into his hands and swallowed hard a couple of times. After a moment, he looked up, frowning. "Where are we?" he demanded, suspiciously.

Fraser glanced at his watch. "We've been cruising for nine and a half minutes at an approximate speed of 30 knots."

"On Lake Michigan?"

"Yes, on the Lake they call Michigan."

"Lake Michigan," he repeated.

"Yes, the Lake they call Michigan."

"_Lake_ Michigan," Ray insisted, then winced and rubbed his head.

"I think that blow knocked a hole in his bag of marbles, son," Bob said, worriedly.

Alarmed, Fraser extended a hand. "How many fingers am I holding up, Ray?"

He batted his hand down in irritation. "Tell me what happened."

Fraser sat down next to him, keeping a weather eye on the tugboat as he did. "Well, Ray," he said, lightly, "I have good news and bad news."

Ray gave him a withering look, but played along, "What's the good news?"

"You're alive," he said, sincerely.

He flashed him a wan smile. "Yeah, Benny. That _is_ good news," he said, glancing at Vinnie and Joey. He took a deep breath. "So ... what's the bad news?"

Fraser told him.

"You're right, Benny," Ray said, miserably, "that's not funny at all." He reached out. "Give me a hand." Fraser helped him scoot back against a crate, facing the front of the barge and the tugboat. "So, how many on the tug?"

"Five, I think."

"Where're we going?"

He pulled out his compass. The luminous dial glowed green. "Northeast. We've been on this heading since we pulled away from the docks."

"What's northeast?"

"Eventually, the Atlantic Ocean. And beyond that, France. But, this isn't an ocean-going vessel, so I imagine our destination would fall short of Europe –" He stopped at Ray's caustic look, then said, "If we stay on this heading, we would reach the Straits of Mackinac and enter the waters of the Lake they call Huron."

He gaped at him. "You're kidding me, right?"

"I'm not saying we _will_ continue on this heading." He rubbed an eyebrow with his thumb. "I don't know where we're going."

Ray, looking at the corpses, cut in. "They wouldn't go that far before dumping these two." He looked up at Fraser. "How would they do it? They're all the way up there where it's nice and toasty, and Vinnie and Joey are back here. Where's it's not." He pulled his overcoat closer. While they were sheltered from the wind by the stacks of crates surrounding them, it was still cold.

His father said, "Stop the boat, disconnect the tow cable, pull alongside the barge, board it, weight the bodies, and throw them overboard."

Fraser repeated that for Ray's benefit.

"So, we'd have some warning."

"Yes," he said, then "although, they could shoot us without boarding first." He looked over his shoulder, but his father was gone.

"But, we can shoot back." Ray reached under his arm and checked his weapon. It was intact and he had one extra clip. Unfortunately, his ankle gun was locked in the drawer of the night stand beside his bed. The trigger guard had been sticking and he hadn't had a chance to take it in for repair. Damn!

"Yes, Ray. But, forgive me for pointing this out, the barge is unpowered. The tugboat could maroon us, or ram us, or capsize us, or –"

"OK, OK, I get the picture," he said. "So, what do we do?"

"Conceal ourselves and wait."

"Wait for what?"

"An opportunity to overpower our adversaries or escape."

Ray looked around. "Not many places to conceal ourselves on this thing."

"On the contrary, Ray," he said, thumping the crate that Ray was leaning against. "This should do nicely."


	19. Chapter 17 A Please read after chap 16

**NOTE FROM AUTHOR: ** I am so sorry, but I uploaded the chapters out of order due to an error in chapter numbers. This chapter should be read after Chapter 16 (the scene at the Oak Park beach with Fraser and David) and Chapter 17 (the scene back at the 27th precinct with David, Fraser, Ray and Elaine.) It appeared to me to that I could not correct the numbering after I posted the chapter. If this is incorrect, someone please let me know. I am sorry to disrupt the flow of the story, but hope that it's not too much of a distraction.

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN A**

"Fraser, I need you to make the arrangements for a visiting -" Meg Thatcher was deep within Fraser's office before she looked up from the letter in her hand. The Constable was not, in fact, in his office. She wandered the upstairs hallway peeking in doors. She found him downstairs, in the Consulate library, a richly furnished, well-appointed room filled with comfortable chairs, reading lamps and wall-to-wall bookshelves. Turnbull kept it neat and tidy, but it was rarely, if ever, used. Or, perhaps more accurately,she never used it.

Her missing officer was seated in a chair by a window. The morning light streamed in behind him, shining on his dark hair and the book on his lap. Curious, she peered at the book from her vantage at the door. It was a large, heavy tome. The open pages were dense with small print, tables, and graphs. He was as engrossed in it as she would be in the latest Stephen King novel. She watched him read, unaccustomed to seeing such an unguarded expression on his face. She studied his features, trying to see the real man beneath the reserved mask he usually wore.

When she took up her post at the Consulate, she had read the files on him, backwards and forwards, as she had done for all the staff. For months now, she had been trying to reconcile the man in those files with the man under her command. It didn't fit with the Fraser she saw every day, the one who quietly took everything she could dish out, who performed his job superlatively, if unconventionally, who spent his down time assisting the local police, without remuneration. Those files described a nettlesome outlier, while she saw a Don Quixote in red serge, constantly tilting at urban windmills. Was it all an act, as she had first suspected? A charade to gull her, his new superior on her first command, into scrubbing clean his troublesome reputation? Or a guilty, but repentant, man attempting rehabilitation, whose foot might slip again at any moment? Or, and she could hardly credit it, could he actually be for real?

Meg was an ambitious, competent officer on a career path she hoped would someday take her to the highest levels of Ottawa. The consular assignment had been a multi-faceted opportunity - a command of her own, invaluable diplomatic experience, exposure in a major American city. She had intended to make the most of it, surpassing the expectations of the brass that had put her here. She had been warned that the plum assignment came with some baggage.

Fraser.

Because he had been on medical leave when she had first taken up her post, her first impression of him had come from her superiors and those files. Meg believed in the chain of command, in working from within the system, in sucking it up for the good of the Service. What Fraser had done, exposing the government in the Yukon dam scandal, turning in a superior officer, publicly disputing the corruption allegations surrounding his dead father, should have been handled internally, through proper channels. Instead, his actions had caused the Service to be dragged through the mud.

Oh, he had his supporters in the Force, who applauded or excused his actions. But they were primarily field officers in the Territories or the Yukon with little political clout. When he himself had become embroiled in a sex and murder scandal in Chicago last year, it seemed to underscore what his detractors had been saying all along. Inspector Margaret Thatcher, eager to shine at her first command post, had believed everything she had been told. She had put pressure on him, within legal parameters, hoping he'd resign. Or cross a line that would justify dismissal. She thought she was being fair to someone who really didn't deserve it.

But, as time passed, she had begun to doubt the veracity of the files and the motives of the superiors who encouraged his departure from the Service. Things happened which were at odds with the picture the files painted. The latest anomaly occurred when Fraser had wanted to refuse the Mayor of Chicago's commendation for apprehending the Rooftop Burglar, insisting that it was Vecchio who deserved the credit for arresting the perpetrator. She had insisted right back, pointing out that such an accolade reflected well on the Consulate, the RCMP, and their nation in general, as well as being a feather in her cap. He had apologized profusely for his obtuseness, and agreed to accept the honor. She had passed her report and the favorable newspaper clippings on to Ottawa, expecting a pat on her back and perhaps new thinking on the Fraser problem. But, there had been only silence.

So, when the firearms certification snafu had been revealed last week, it had been like a slap in the face. She had gone to bat for Fraser, trying to get an extension from Ottawa, and barring that, shipping him home to a target range before the deadline expired. She had been coldly rebuffed at every turn, leading her to the uncomfortable thought that she had not moved quickly enough to deal with the Fraser problem, from certain points of view. Or, maybe she was perceived as having switched sides. She shook her head. You're just being paranoid, she told herself, with a small sigh.

With his preternaturally acute hearing, he heard her. He glanced up, then leapt to his feet, book quickly tucked under one arm. "Sir! I didn't see you there."

She strode into the room. "What is that?"

"What is what, sir?"

"There, under your arm."

He looked down at it. "A book, sir. I was just ... uh ... reading," he finished lamely.

She held out her hands and he surrendered it to her. _Industry, Regional and Provincial Economic Trends and Forecasts in National Commodities: A Special Report._ She flipped through its densely packed pages. It fell open to where he had inserted a slip of paper as a bookmark. A graph charting the increased production of maple syrup in the post-War years caught her eye.

The tone of her voice dropped several degrees. "Is this about that maple syrup business of yours?"

"No, sir. It's a Ministry of Finance compendium, chronicling all national commodity production, regulation, trade –"

"I mean, Fraser," she said, exasperated, "are you reading this in connection with your little 'mystery'?"

He hesitated slightly. "Yes, sir."

"I told you not to pursue that."

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir." He looked pained. "Actually, sir, I believe you told me not to pursue a line of inquiry with the Federation of Quebec Maple Syrup Producers." He paused, then added helpfully. "I do not recall that you told me not to read official government reports. However, if you would prefer that I limit my reading to certain material, perhaps a list of the prohibited subjects could be –"

"Of course, I want you to read official reports. It's part of our jobs, Fraser. As you well know." It stung that his impression of her would be that of officious tyrant. Her inner voice added, _then, stop behaving like one!_

"Yes, sir."

"And, I'm not trying to tell you what you can and cannot read. Ours is a free county, after all." She frowned, and added, "Within reason ."

"Yes, sir."

She riffled the pages of the report, creating a slight breeze that ruffled her hair. When she spoke, her voice was less strident. "Have there been any new developments in the maple syrup mystery?"

"Yes, sir. There have."

"Would I want to know about them?"

He looked at her speculatively, then said. "No, sir. I don't believe that you would."

She waved a hand, dismissively. "Then, forget I asked."

"Y-yes, sir." He had been standing rigidly at attention since jumping out of the chair. That open expression was gone, replaced by what she thought of as his Mountie mask.

She sighed. "Fraser, I'm not a martinet."

"N-no, sir," he said, faltering. "I'm sorry if I implied that you were."

"Stop apologizing," she said, more sharply than she intended.

"Yes, sir. Sor –" He bit his lip and looked down at his feet.

She wished she could take the rebuke back, or at least soften the tone. But, she didn't know how, especially with a subordinate officer. She had developed an aggressive mien and a thick skin to get her where she was now. It was a hard lesson, but she had learned to suppress the softer side of her nature. A lesson that he, too, should have learned by now, if he had any ambition. Still, as his commanding officer, she had him at a disadvantage. There was no call to be abusive as well. He couldn't very well respond in kind.

She deliberately lightened her tone. "At ease, Constable."

He relaxed slightly. "Were you looking for me, sir?"

"Yes, Fraser. I was," she said, relieved to change the subject. "The assistant Undersecretary for Business Development will be visiting Chicago next month." She handed him the letter. "Please make the travel arrangements. And schedule some suitable entertainment and cultural activities while she is here. This will be her first visit to the United States."

He glanced at the letter, then back at her. "I will, sir."

"And I need the FAFFs completed for Banff asap," she began.

"I finished them this morning, sir."

"Finished?" she said, surprised. "I put them on your desk only last night."

"I was in early, sir," he explained. "I'll get them." He didn't mention that Ray had dropped him off after their delivery of Helen and Dave to the suburban station. He had changed into the spare uniform he kept in his office and started in on the FAFF forms immediately. He hadn't yet been to bed, but six cups of bark tea had provided the necessary stimulant. "Er, that is, if I am dismissed?"

"Yes," she said, absently, "put them on my desk." She was squinting at the book in her hands. She couldn't make out the fine print without her glasses. But a large pie chart caught her eye. Ten million pounds of maple syrup were kept stored in warehouses in Quebec as part of the government's grand plan to stabilize price and supply. She reread that. Ten million pounds. Global Strategic Maple Syrup Reserve, indeed! Perhaps, she had been too hasty in dismissing Fraser's interest in his 'mystery.' She sat in the chair he had vacated, and turned a page.

After a few minutes, she felt something and looked up. Fraser was watching her from the precise spot where she had stood watching him. He saw that she was aware of his presence. With a determined air, he crossed to her and reached out a hand. He was holding her glasses.

As she reached for them, they spoke at the same time.

"Sir, I think you were wrong –" – "Fraser, I think you were right–"

They stopped, then both said at the same time:

"What did you say, Fraser?" – "What did you say, sir?"

Fraser recovered first, and said hastily, "You first, sir."

She gave him a sour look, but complied. "I said, I think you were ... not wrong."

"Ah," he said, then paused, savoring the moment.

"What did_ you_ say, Fraser?" she said, impatiently.

"That's not important, sir," he said. Thatcher could discern no expression on his face, but was that a twinkle in his eye? "What is important is that you think I'm ... not wrong." Before she could react, he said, quickly, "That is, I mean ... what did _you_ mean, sir?"

She donned the glasses and read aloud, "'At any given time, the Federation of Maple Syrup Producers stores over ten million pounds of maple syrup in a secret location in rural Quebec.'" She looked up. "Ten million pounds!"

He looked down at her. He rarely saw her bespectacled. She usually snatched them off when other people entered the room. The glasses suited her, emphasizing the rich chocolate of her eyes and the heart shape of her face. He nodded. "The Global Strategic Maple Syrup Reserve is a significant part of our national economy."

"I know that. Maple syrup is also intrinsic to our heritage."

"I pointed that out to Detective Vecchio just the other day, sir."

She looked down at the book in her lap then up at his earnest face. She gestured to the adjoining chair. "Sit down, Fraser."

He sat, stiffly.

"Tell me," she said.

He took a moment to gather his thoughts, then related a condensed version of the murders of Albert Ames and Brian Mosely and the attempt on David Everett's life. She was silent throughout his recitation .

Fraser said, in conclusion, "Detective Vecchio believes that organized crime is behind the violence. In retaliation for the presumed theft of the maple syrup by Brian and Al from them."

Thatcher was appalled. "They killed two people for stealing what they themselves had already stolen?"

"According to Ray, in Chicago, there are two things written in stone. One, you never, _ever _steal from the Mob." He paused, tugging at his ear. "But, we don't know for a certainty that the maple syrup_ was_ stolen, sir. Or, if it was, by whom. I have been unable to ascertain the source of the supply." He steepled his fingers and continued. "The young men in question had apparently pilfered 10 fifty-five gallon drums of premium maple syrup, part of which consisted of Quebecois Dark Reserve, the most expensive and exclusive maple syrup in Canada. That large a quantity of maple syrup, if stolen from a retail or even a wholesale outlet, should have been reported to law enforcement on one side of the border or other. The Quebecois Dark, especially."

"That's why you wanted to contact the Federation," she mused. "To see if there were any losses_ before _the syrup reached the retail or wholesale market."

"Yes, sir," he said, looking at her. "But, you were ... not wrong." There was that twinkle again. "I realize now that this is a politically sensitive issue, and that such an inquiry would be likely to raise ... uh ... hackles." He made a face. "Especially, coming from me."

So, he did understand he was a pariah in political circles. Maybe, he wasn't as naive as he appeared. "Hmmmm," she said, thoughtfully. "Perhaps, I was hasty." She made a decision. "I have a friend in Ottawa. She can be discreet." She sat up straight. "I'll make a careful inquiry."

"Thank you, sir."

"What's the other thing?"

"Sir?"

"You said there were two things written in stone in Chicago. What's the other thing?"

"Oh," he said, surprised. "Never cross the Donnelly Brothers."

"Who are the Donnelly Brothers?"

"Criminals, sir."

"Did you?"

"Did I what?"

"Cross them," she said, exasperated.

He tugged at his ear. "I suppose I did. But, they're in jail now, so I imagine that's no longer written in stone. Although, if it isn't now, how could it ever have been in the first place?" He looked confused. "I'll have to ask Ray."

She looked at him. "What is your next step?"

Fraser straightened in his chair. "I'm meeting Ray after my shift ends. We will investigate the victims. Perhaps, find the link that leads to their killers." He added, "And to the source of the maple syrup."

She spoke briskly. "After you finish the arrangements for the Deputy's visit, you are dismissed." At his surprised look, she said, "You and Vecchio are in a unique position to follow up these leads. That must take priority over other duties."

He lowered his voice and leaned in closer. "So, this is a job for the International Joint Task Force of the Canadian Consulate and the Chicago Police Department?"

She looked blank for a moment, then said, "Oh, right. The ... uh ... International Joint Task Force of the Chicago Consulate, I mean, Canadian ..." She grimaced, "that's a mouthful." She thought. "Perhaps, we should just refer to it as the IJTF."

Fraser nodded in agreement. "Ray wants to print that on T-shirts." At her alarmed look, he said, "Just joking, sir."

She smiled, and just as quickly, it was gone. But, for a moment, Fraser had felt like the sun had come out from behind a cloud. She stood. He followed suit. She handed him the book.

"Carry on, Constable," she said, and exited the library. Fraser returned it to the shelves, then walked back to his office. He made the travel plans for the visiting dignitary, gathered up Dief, went home and changed to civilian clothes, and, to Ray's surprise, was at the 27th by noon.

Their first stop was the squalid rented room that Albert Ames had lived in. There was barely room for a bed, and no storage space. Not even a closet. The contents were typical for a twenty year old with limited means living in one room. Piles of dirty laundry, sheets that hadn't been changed in weeks, empty pizza boxes and takeout containers dominated the room. No reading material, except for a couple of adult magazines, which a red-faced Fraser discovered under the bed and hastily returned there. He and Dief sniffed away, but found nothing that hinted of maple syrup or anything to help with the quest. All Ray could discern was the stink of dirty socks. Fraser hadn't even found anything worth licking. The super had nothing to add. Al paid by the week and was one week ahead. None of his 'neighbors' knew anything. Or rather, none of them would open their doors to them.

They moved on to Brian Mosely's address, another rented room on the North Side. This one was a little bigger, a little neater, but otherwise, depressingly similar to Al's. Dave had not known Brian well. Dave had been Al's friend and Al had been Brian's. Dave had told them that he knew Al from high school, before they had both dropped out. Al, though older, had been held back a grade. Brian and Al had served in the same community service program, picking up trash for three months along Highway 94.

Dave knew none of the details of the origin of the maple syrup barrels. Nonetheless, it was clear from his tale that Brian had been the mastermind, so to speak, of the maple syrup caper. Still, there were no stores of maple syrup in barrels, bottles, or jars in his tiny room. And no sign of where they might be, where they had come from or whether they still existed. No helpful diary or calendar, no paystubs, no receipts, no paperwork at all. Ray theorized a rented storage unit or garage somewhere where the barrels had been kept and decanted to smaller containers. But nothing on the premises supported that theory. If there was such a storage space, it would take some real shoe leather to find it. Ray looked around the room, depressed. It might come to that.

Unlike Al, Brian at least had a closet. Fraser squatted by it, sifting through the few pairs of shoes. He picked up a well-worn work boot and examined the bottom. Fraser sniffed deeply, then held it out to Dief for his own olfactory analysis. He yipped and made noises.

"Yes, I think so, too," Fraser said, thoughtfully. He sniffed again. He took out his knife and scraped the bottom of the shoe onto his handkerchief. He dipped a finger into the scrapings and held it up to the light before touching the tip of his tongue to it.

"Eeewww," Ray said, though he knew it was a lost cause.

Fraser looked at Dief. "Creosote, sawdust..." He took another taste, then nodded, "Rust. Very high ferrous content. And, definitely, maple syrup." The wolf woofed in agreement. He carefully folded the scrapings into the handkerchief and returned it to his pocket.

Ray, who had just finished going through all the pockets of Brian's meager supply of clothes, sat on the bed. "I went over the Camaro this morning with the techs. There was nothing in it, not even a gum wrapper. It looked like it had just been washed and vacuumed. I bet he kept it off the streets, garaged it somewhere. If we find the garage, we'll find the syrup, I'm thinking." He sighed. "The kid must have loved that car. Shame about the bloodstains." He rubbed tired eyes. "If Guardino wins at auction, he'd be getting a sweet ride." He looked around at the sad remains of a young man's short life. "Maybe, ol' Brian would appreciate it going to a good home."

"Perhaps," Fraser said. Ray and Louis, and apparently Brian, had deep connections to their classic automobiles, a phenomenon that Fraser simply did not understand. "I'm glad I didn't dent it, then," he said, lightly.

Ray smiled. "Me, too." He stood up. "You hungry?"

They found a nearby restaurant. Fraser tried the pancake syrup for completeness' sake, but pronounced it Mrs. Butterworth's. They lingered over coffee after the meal. Ray was operating on a couple of hours sleep, Fraser on none.

"You said, creosote, right?" Ray asked. "Rust - iron ore. Sawdust - timber. Put them all together ... well, they don't spell MOTHER." He sipped coffee. "Brian worked the docks. But, not the pleasure boat marina where Dave worked."

"Logical," Fraser said, approvingly.

"They're a lot of docks on Lake Michigan. Where do we start?"

"The one place that holds all the answers, Ray."

"Church?"

Fraser gave him a strange look. "The library."

"Oh," Ray groused. "I'd rather go to church."

He finished his coffee. "There's a branch of the Chicago Public Library two blocks from here."

Ray was surprised. Fraser lived on the other side of town. "You been there?"

"No," he said. "I've memorized all the branch locations. You never know when you'll have an emergency." He paused. "We need the map from your car." They retrieved the map of the _City of Chicago And Environs _and continued walking.

Ray was silent on the way. As they approached the glass-fronted doors of the imposing stone structure, Fraser stopped. A large sign, with a figure of a dog with a red line through it, proclaimed in large type, _No dogs allowed, except service dogs. _

"Oh, dear," he said, then leaned down and spoke to Diefenbaker. "I'm sorry but you'll have to wait out here."

Dief grumbled.

"Yes, I know you're a wolf, but that is implied." As Dief made a complaining noise, he threw his hands up in exasperation. "We go through this _every _time!"

Dief, sulking, obeyed the restriction, and settled himself next to the marble lion lining the walk. He assumed the same pose as the feline statue.

Fraser held the door open for Ray.

He hung back, "I'll wait out here with Dief. Keep him company."

"That's not necessary, Ray. He'll be fine."

A woman holding a small boy by the hand thanked Fraser as she walked through the door he held open. Several more library patrons did the same.

Still, Ray hung back. "Go ahead, Benny. I'm fine out here."

He let go of the door and it swung shut. "Ray?"

Ray sauntered over to where Dief was perched, and leaned against the wall. He didn't meet Fraser's eyes.

Fraser came closer. "Is there something wrong?" It was obvious that there was. Ray looked extremely uncomfortable, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

In a low voice, he said, "I'm not allowed in there."

"Nonsense, Ray. It's a public library. It's open to everyone."

"No, you don't understand." He paused as a man with a little girl passed by him on the way in. When they were out of earshot, he continued, "I'm banned. For life."

Fraser chuckled. "Good one, Ray. Come on." Then, seeing that his friend was not smiling, continued, "Oh. You're serious!" At his nod, he asked, "Why?"

Ray kept his eyes on his shuffling feet. "Me and Peggy Ann Malina got ... caught ... in the Ancient History section."

"Caught?"

"You know - _caught_."

Fraser was confused. "Were you playing hide and seek?"

"Hide and seek? We were fifteen years old!" Ray rolled his eyes as he still looked perplexed, then said. "We were making out, Benny!"

The look on Fraser's face would have been comical if Ray had been in a comical frame of mind. "In the library?!" he said, aghast. He couldn't have looked more shocked if Ray had confessed to participating in an orgy in the nave of St. Peter's Basilica. On Easter Sunday.

"Yes, in the library," he repeated, testily. "I was fifteen, for chrissake!"

"Oh, Ray," Fraser said, shaking his head. "Ray, Ray, Ray."

But Ray was in confessional mode. "It was getting pretty hot and heavy there, you know_," _he made vaguely suggestive gestures with his hands, "when, all of a sudden, this old battleaxe of a librarian came round the corner. She marched Peggy Ann and me out to the front desk, ripped up our library cards right in our faces, then banned us for life!"

"That's horrible!"

"It was, actually," he said, touched by his empathy.

"_In flagrante delicto _in a ... a ... library!" Fraser clucked his tongue. "How could you?"

"I was fifteen!" he said, defensively.

Suddenly, the implications of his confession struck Fraser. "You can't mean ... you aren't saying ... that you have not set foot in a library - any library - since you were fifteen years old?!"

"Well, um ... yeah."

Stunned, the grandson of librarians rocked back on his heels. "Huh!" he managed, at a momentary loss. Then, with an air of determination, he said, "Right. Well, then. There's no time like the present. Come on." He held the door open, again.

Ray shook his head, and stayed put.

"Ray, that was eighteen years ago! It's time."

More patrons passed between them while Fraser held the door.

"Fraser, I am not going in there!" said the Immovable Object.

"Ray, you have to get past this," replied the Irresistible Force.

"I have survived without a library for eighteen years. I am not going in there, now!" He crossed his arms on his chest, defiantly. "And you can't make me." Just as he said it, a small group of children, preschoolers, were being herded up the steps by two young women. A little boy balked at the door and refused to go forward as the other children filed past him.

"Timmy, come along," a young woman, obviously his teacher, pleaded. The rest of the group continued on, shepherded by the other woman.

"No!"

"Timmy, you have to. Come on," she wheedled, taking his hand, "the library is a fun place."

Timmy yanked his hand out of hers, and crossed his arms over his chest, his lower lip jutting out, stubbornly. "No, I don't wanna!" He trotted over to Ray and Dief. "And you can't make me!"

The young woman stared at them, exasperated. Then, turned and looked at Fraser, who was still holding the door.

Fraser fixed Ray with a steely gaze and then, looked pointedly at Timmy. "Ray," he said, firmly.

He looked at him, at the teacher, who was very pretty, at Dief, who was very amused, and finally, at the little boy. He peeled himself away from the wall, resignedly. "Come on, Timmy. The library is a fun place." After a moment, the boy followed him.

"Thank you," the teacher said, smiling at Ray. He brightened and returned the smile.

"You're welcome," he said, motioning her through the door. Fraser held the door for Timmy and Ray, then entered himself. They passed the front desk where the librarians looked at them curiously, having observed a commotion outside.

Ray blanched as he saw one old lady, her snow-white hair skinned up in a tight bun, frown at him. He quickened his pace, and caught up to Fraser who was marching on, a man with a mission.

"That's her!" he said, in a fierce whisper.

"Who?"

"The battleaxe," he said, looking over his shoulder. She was still staring at him. He glanced away, guiltily. "I think she recognized me."

"She probably has your picture posted on the wall of the Library's Most Wanted," Fraser deadpanned. His lips quirked at Ray's alarmed reaction.

. "Ha ha, Benny," he muttered. "What are we doing here, anyway?"

"Research. Ah," he said, pointing to the sign that said Periodicals Section.

A few minutes later, Ray's city map was spread out on the table of a small reading room they had to themselves. Fraser, oblivious to her flirtations, had borrowed a ruler and several crayons from an attractive librarian in the children's section, and was now bent over the map.

"The marina where Dave worked is here." He pointed. "The boat he borrowed on the night in question was docked there." He made an "X" with a black crayon. "Once he cleared the jetty, his course was northwest at a speed of approximately 20 knots." His finger traced an invisible line. "They had been cruising about one hour when Al sighted the first barrel. Here." He marked an "X" with a blue crayon. "Now, Ray, what was the wind speed and direction on the night in question? Ray?" He looked over his shoulder. "Ray?"

Ray had several newspapers spread out before him on the adjoining table. He was intent on reading and didn't respond.

"Ray!"

"Huh?"

"The newspaper. What does it say?"

"Ebert gives_ Apollo 13 _thumbs up, way up. Thumbs down on _Showgirls_."

"Ray, the wind?"

"Oh, right." He shuffled through the papers. "The Sun-Times says 10-15 mph from the west." He grabbed another paper. "The Tribune agrees on the direction but says 15-20."

"So, a prevailing westerly wind would move the surface water of the Lake to the east," Fraser studied the map, thinking out loud, "and the barrels with it." Murmuring to himself, he continued, "Now, assuming the barrels went into the water no more than an hour before Dave and Al arrived ... granted, that's a big assumption, but too much lead time, and shifts in the wind, the speed, or the current could push the barrels too far off course ... plus, the longer they're in the water, the more likely they could be intercepted by someone else ... and assuming that they were launched from a dock or pier rather than a boat ... because, honestly, if it was a boat, we'd have no hope of finding it ..." He rubbed his chin. "Sure, so many assumptions can be like a house of cards, but, what can you do?" He shrugged, philosophically. "So, that would put the point of origin of the barrels approximately here!" He drew a red "X" with a flourish. He looked triumphantly at Ray, who wasn't paying the least bit of attention.

"Ray!"

He looked up from his reading. "What?"

Fraser pointed to the map. "X marks the spot."

He stood and stretched, then looked at the map. He squinted at the mark in the Lake on the paper map, took a look at the street names in the vicinity, and thought hard. Then, it clicked.

"Brannigan's Wharf." He blew out a breath. "Rough place, Benny. I had a few close calls there when I worked Vice." He pulled on his coat. "You ready?" He peered out the door and around the corner. "Coast is clear! Let's go! " He darted down the hall and out the front door, where Dief greeted him enthusiastically.

Fraser followed at a more sedate pace, returning the borrowed supplies and thanking the staff for their assistance. He was inwardly amused at the contrasting images of two Rays: one, eager to rush in to the rough and tumble world of the urban dock scene, and the other, who fled the wrath of an elderly librarian. Then, he remembered the time when he was seven, and spilled his chocolate milk on the traveling library's only copy of _Treasure Island. _Even now, more than twenty five years later, his own close encounter with an angry elderly librarian sent a shiver down his spine, and he realized he'd have rather faced a polar bear, hungry after its winter hibernation, than his grandmother that day. He hurried to catch up with Ray.


	20. Chapter 17B Correction Read after 16

**NOTE FROM AUTHOR: ** I wish I could say I was just testing readers to see if they were paying attention, but ... this is the actual missing Chapter 17B, which should be read after Chapter 16 (scene with Fraser and David on beach) and Chapter 17 (Fraser and Thatcher in Consulate.) I am doubly apologetic for the confusion and disrupting the flow!

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN** **B **

"I'm sorry, kid," Ray said, with genuine feeling.

"You're sure it's them?" Dave asked, his voice cracking. "Shouldn't I identify the b-bodies or something?"

He shook his head. "The M.E. made a positive ID."

"I don't understand!," he cried, looking back and forth between the two men across the table. "Why? Why kill Al and Brian?"

Ray and Fraser exchanged glances. In the car heading back to the station, Fraser had filled Ray in on the events on the beach, while Dave sat silently in the back with Dief. Ray had waited until they were seated in Interview Room 1 before telling his part of the story. The news of his friends' deaths was proving difficult for Dave to absorb. Ray doubted he realized how close he had come to joining them.

Fraser chose his words carefully. He and Ray had not yet had the chance to discuss the rapidly developing situation in private. "We don't know for sure," he began, slowly. Ray nodded, indicating he should continue. "However, logically, the common denominator is the maple syrup."

"Who kills somebody over maple syrup?" he asked, angrily.

He said gently, "Al and Brian nearly killed Dief and me for that very reason."

"That wasn't about the syrup! It was about not getting caught!" Dave retorted, then had the grace to look abashed at his words.

"Perhaps, it's the same for Vinnie and Joey," Fraser said, "or rather, their employers."

"Or maybe they were killed as an example for others," Ray added.

"Huh?"

"In this city, there are some people you never, _ever_ steal from. Not even a dime," he said, then added, "The price is too high. And, they make damn sure everybody knows what that price is."

Dave gaped at him. "Y-you're talking about the M-mob."

"I'm talking about the Mob," he confirmed.

"But, it was only maple syrup!" Dave wailed. He wiped his nose on his sleeve.

"You said it yourself, Dave," Fraser began, handing his handkerchief to the boy. "Brian told Al the barrels contained whiskey. They were both surprised that they didn't." He steepled his fingers. "I believe Brian mistook barrels of contraband maple syrup for contraband whiskey, which would indicate that both were stored at the same location. Perhaps, with other commodities, equally ill-gotten." He frowned. "The loss was noticed at some point. And the back-alley disposal of the syrup came to someone's attention."

Dave was horrified as the implications sunk in. "B-but ... _I_ helped them dispose of the maple syrup!" He swallowed hard, and looked at Fraser. "Vinnie and Joey weren't gunning for you at the beach! The Mob is after me!"

"Yes."

"Omigod!" The panic in his voice was escalating. "What am I gonna do?!"

Fraser reached over and gripped his arm tightly. "You are in police custody, Dave. No harm will come to you." He raised his eyebrows at Ray.

"Yeah," he said, unconvincingly. "You'll be fine."

Dave stared into Fraser's eyes. He held his gaze for a long moment, then released his arm. The boy nodded and took a deep breath.

"Fraser, can I see you outside?"

"Sure, Ray." He followed Ray out of Interview 1 and into the adjoining room. It had a one-way mirror which gave a view of the room they had just left.

"I don't know, Benny," he said, worriedly. "I doubt the Lieutenant will authorize protective custody. This is like the Joey Paducci situation."

"I know."

They watched through the one-way glass as Dave buried his face in his hands. His shoulders shook, but, with the mic off, there was no sound. Diefenbaker stood on his hind legs and poked his nose between his fingers. The boy wrapped his arms around the wolf and buried his face in his fur.

They turned away to give Dave his privacy. There was a knock on the door. Elaine poked her head in. She saw they were alone and entered. Her arms were full of what looked like laundry.

"The Lieutenant wants to see you, Ray." She sniffed and made a face. "We took up a collection." She handed the bundle to Fraser.

Fraser looked a question at her.

"The sweatpants are Huey's, T-shirt and socks are from Guardino, and the cardigan is the Lieutenant's. The soap and towel are mine."

Embarrassed and flustered, Fraser looked to Ray for rescue.

"Hey, don't look at me," he said, raising his hands defensively, "I didn't rush back here with all the windows open just for fun!"

Fraser sniffed himself. Apparently, close proximity with the port-o-let and the ground around it had left an impression, although he couldn't detect it. His olfactory sense seemed to have adjusted. Perhaps, in self-defense. "Is it that bad?"

They rolled their eyes. "Hit the showers, kid," she said.

He glanced at the one-way glass.

"I'll keep an eye on him," she promised.

"Thank you, kindly." He exited the room, holding the bundle stiffly away from his body. Ray followed at a discreet distance. They split up, with Fraser heading downstairs to the locker room and Ray to the Lieu's office.

When Fraser returned to the squad room, redolent of lilac and lavender, he saw Ray, Guardino and Huey closeted in the Lieutenant's office with the door closed. The discussion seemed ... animated. He ducked into the canteen and returned, carrying hot tea, cold Coke, two sandwiches and a stale donut. He entered Interview 1. Dave sat at the scarred table, his head resting on his arms. Dief was next to him, his chin on the boy's leg. At Fraser's approach, Dave looked up with red-rimmed eyes.

Fraser set the drinks down, and moved the Coke in front of Dave. "I'm afraid there wasn't much left. Hugo won't restock until tomorrow." He placed the wrapped sandwiches on the table. "Tuna or liverwurst?"

He wiped his nose on his sleeve. "Thanks, but I'm not hungry."

Dief whined.

To his surprise, Fraser handed him the donut. "Just this once, mister," he said, sternly, but rubbed the wolf's head with affection. He dipped his teabag up and down in the cup, then said, conversationally, "You know, David, the Inuit believe that they have a sacred covenant with the seal. A compact, if you will, between hunter and animal." He turned a palm up. "On one hand, the seal is willing to die to nourish the hunter and his family. Through that sacrifice, the seal literally becomes a part of them. A part of the people." He turned the other palm up. "In return, the Inuit must honor that sacrifice, or the seal will be offended. If that were to happen, the seal will refuse to reproduce. Thus, leaving the Inuit to starve." He removed the teabag from his cup and tossed it in the trash.

Dave looked at him, uncertain if he was expected to respond. He grabbed the Coke and took a gulp.

Fraser went on, "In this belief system, the liver, not the heart, is considered the location of the soul. So, when a hunter kills a seal, the liver is the part of the animal that is most prized. It is reserved for the hunter first, before the other meat is shared with the group, to renew his strength, to warm his body, to restore his soul."

There was a silence while he drank his tea. To fill it, Dave said, "What's an In-oo-ot?"

"The name the Native peoples of the North call themselves," he replied. "You probably know them as the 'Eskimo.'" At Dief's grumble, he lowered his voice. "But that's a derogatory term. We shouldn't use it."

"Oh."

Fraser sipped tea. "What you did today was very brave." As Dave looked away in embarrassment, he added, "Foolhardy, but brave." He took another sip. "You saved my life. And, I'm grateful."

"Well, um ... you saved mine first, I guess." Dave reached for the liverwurst sandwich. It was gone in minutes. He was a grieving, frightened teenage boy, but he was still a teenage boy.

Fraser had just finished the other sandwich when Ray returned. He pulled him out of the room.

"You smell like Elaine," he commented drily, then added. "He OK?"

"For now."

"Tough kid."

"Yes," Fraser agreed, then looked expectantly at him.

"Well," he said, rubbing his jaw, "I've got good news and bad news."

Fraser waited.

"You're supposed to ask me for one of them," Ray prompted.

"One of what?"

"Good news or bad news." At Fraser's blank look, he explained, "That's the joke. You ask me what the good news is, then the punchline is when I tell you what the bad news is."

"Oh."

He waited. "So, go ahead ask me."

Fraser gave him a long-suffering look. "What's the ... uh ... bad- " he saw Ray's glower and amended, "no, uh, ... what's the good news, Ray?"

"The _good_ news, Benny," he said, heartily, "is that the case is ours. The two murders and the attempted. Huey and Louie tried to hang on it to it, but the Lieutenant figures we got dibs by finding Dave before the hitmen did."

Fraser nodded.

He raised his eyebrows and waggled them at Fraser, looking expectant.

"What else, Ray?"

He rolled his eyes. "No, no. This is where you ask me what the bad news is, Benny."

"Oh. Sorry." Then, seeing that he was still expecting something, he continued, "Uh, what's the bad news, Ray?"

"The_ bad_news, Benny, is ... that there's no protective custody for Dave." He grinned, waving his hands in a _ta-da! _gesture. "Get it?"

Fraser looked at him as if he had two heads. "That's not funny a'tall, Ray."

He frowned. "Well, no, it's not. But, that's the way the joke works."

"Ah."

Ray shook his head dispiritedly, then moved on. "I kept the maple syrup details between me and the Lieutenant, like you said. He agreed it was IJTF business. Preliminary forensics are no help. Nothing we didn't already know. The only prints on the johnny-on-the-spot were yours."

"Vinnie wore leather gloves," Fraser confirmed.

"Apparently, there was nothing usable on the inside. Too much ... debris ... smeared on the interior surface," he gave Fraser a sidewise glance. "You're not too popular with the fingerprint guys right now."

"Understood."

"Of course, the license plate on the Caddy was stolen."

"Of course."

"We got a description of the car and the perps out on the wire, but that'll get us bupkis."

"R-ight," Fraser said, uncertainly. "And it's unlikely to produce any results, either."

Ray sighed in resignation. "We're gonna have to work backwards from the maple syrup angle, aren't we?"

"I'm afraid so," he said. "But, first ..." He looked back at the interview room.

"Yeah," Ray agreed, looking that way too. "I could park him at my house. Ma's in Florida, and we have the extra room ..."

"You can't do that, Ray. You'd be putting your family at risk." Fraser rubbed an eyebrow with his thumb. "He could stay at my apartment, with Dief, but,-"

"He'd be bored out of his gourd at your place and on the streets in an hour," Ray scoffed. "We can't investigate if we have to babysit," he said, thinking out loud. "But, the poor kid can't go home."

"He doesn't have a home to go home to, Ray. Or any family." He paused, then murmured, "Family." At Ray's quizzical look, he said, "May I use your phone?" At his nod, he walked back into the detective's room.

Ray went back in the interview room. "What do you like on your pizza? My treat."

Dief yipped excitedly.

"I didn't ask you," he said, sourly.

"Pepperoni," Dave said. "Thanks."

Ray used his cell phone to call for delivery, then sat down across from the boy. "Y'know, kid. What you did today ... going back for Fraser ... that took guts."

He shrugged, embarrassed. "It was no big deal."

"Ri- ight, no big deal," Ray said, not unkindly. "Taking on a guy with a gun with a handful of rocks."

Dave was silent. After a moment, he leaned forward and said. "He told me some story about seals and the Inwit – "

"Inuit," Ray corrected automatically.

"In-u-it," he repeated. "It made me want to eat liverwurst." He paused. "I don't even_ like_ liverwurst."

Ray who didn't know what he was talking about, nevertheless, knew _exactly_ what he was talking about. He laughed. "He has that effect on people."

Meanwhile, Fraser had returned to the squad room. As he passed Elaine's desk, he thanked her again for the use of her soap and towel. She looked his ragbag ensemble up and down for a moment and sighed. So, it wasn't just the uniform.

"I bet you'd look good in a gunny sack," she murmured.

"Pardon?"

"I said, it's time to get down to the stacks," she covered quickly, gathering a load of files in her arms. "Shift's almost over. Tick, tock. Tick, tock ..."

Fraser watched her go, then sat at Ray's desk and dialed a number. A woman's voice answered after a couple of rings.

"Helen? It's Benton Fraser."

"Benton! How nice to hear your voice. Did you find Davey?"

"Yes. Helen, –"

"Is he alright?"

He hesitated a moment too long. In retrospect, he came to the conclusion that this was where he lost control of the conversation. "Yes –"

"What's wrong?!"

"It's a long story, Helen. May I come and see you in the morn–?"

"Is Davey in trouble?"

Ray slid into the chair opposite him. He cocked his head, trying to hear both sides of the conversation.

"He's safe for now. May I come and see –"

"For now?! Where is he?"

"He's here with me. May I come –"

"Where are you?"

"Police Station. May I-"

"Which one?"

"The 27th. May –"

"I'll be there in twenty minutes!"

"Now, Helen. It's late. Morning will –"

"Benton Fraser! If you are about to tell me that I am too old to be out at this late hour, must I remind you that I have been a Coast Guard officer's wife for longer than you have been alive and I am fully trained for a rapid response at any time of day or night?"

"Yes, ma'am. I mean, no, ma'am." Fraser said, frowning as Ray laughed at him. "I didn't mean –" He took a breath. "I don't know what I mean," he muttered, realizing he was outmatched. "All right, Helen. But, I insist that I come and pick you up." He paused, borrowing a phrase from Ray. "That's non-negotiable."

"Of course, Benton," she said, sweetly. "Anything you say, dear." And hung up.

Fraser stared at the receiver in his hand a moment, before returning it to its cradle.

Ray glanced at his watch. "She wants to come now?" he said. "I thought she was a little old lady in a retirement home?"

"Ray, she _runs_ the retirement home."

Ray stood and shouldered into his coat. "Let's not keep the lady waiting." Fraser followed. They stopped to tell Dave, who was eating pizza with Elaine, that they would be back within the hour.

She said, "I'm off shift now. I'll keep him company till you get back."

Dief whined.

"And Diefenbaker, of course," she said, petting his head. Dief looked ecstatic at her caress.

Traffic was light this time of night. They made it to Helen's apartment building in fifteen minutes. She was waiting for them, and as Fraser approached her front stoop, she met him halfway. She took his arm and steered him back to the car.

Within minutes of being introduced, Ray found himself telling Helen Barrowman that, despite joining the police force in rebellion against his overbearing father, he had come to love the job and the sense of purpose it gave him, though it wearied him to witness man's inhumanity to man, day in and day out. As he braked for a red light, Ray abruptly stopped talking. He met Fraser's eyes in the rearview mirror and mouthed "HELP ME!"

Fraser, in complete sympathy, rescued him.

"Helen, we need your assistance." He told her a heavily edited version of the events of the day, including the course of David Everett's life since she last saw him. Her eyes grew wide and her hand went to her throat. When he finished, she sat silently for several minutes. Ray pulled in to the station parking lot and shut off the engine.

"Poor Davey," she murmured. "He has had so much to deal with. Too much. And now this!" Ray reached over and patted her shoulder. She squeezed his hand and took a shaky breath. "How can I help, Benton?"

"We need to send David away. Out of the city. Until it's safe for him to return." He paused. "The Chicago Police Department does not have the resources to keep David in protective custody, indefinitely."

Ray chimed in, "A day or two at the station, tops."

"Our time - that is, Ray's and mine - must be spent in solving this crime and removing the threat to Dave. Permanently."

"If we can," Ray added.

Fraser leaned forward from the back seat. "He's a good boy, Helen. He put himself in harm's way to save my life today," he said. "Granted, he took a wrong turn. But, he has been trying to get back on the right path. With a little help, I believe he will succeed."

"If he lives that long," Ray muttered.

"Yes," he agreed, "if he lives that long." He paused. "I don't know what, if anything, you can do, Helen." He met her gaze. " But, I do know that you are the only family Dave has left."

Her eyes filled. She fumbled in her purse, then accepted a tissue from Ray. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. After a moment, she said, "Do you have a cellular telephone that I could use, Ray? It's long distance, I'm afraid."

He blinked at her. "No problem." He reached into his pocket and handed her the device.

Ten minutes later, the three of them walked into Interview Room 1. Dief was sacked out on the floor, snoring rhythmically. Dave's head was pillowed on his arms on the table. A blanket was draped over his shoulders. Elaine was sewing the Coast Guard patch back on to the torn sleeve of his jacket, and snipped the thread as she finished. They looked up as the threesome entered the room.

"Hello, David," Helen said, quietly. "Oh, my! You're so grown up!"

He stared at her, without recognition.

In a tone of ineffable tenderness, she said, "Don't you remember me, Davey?"

He blinked, then rose, slowly. The blanket fell to the floor.

"Aunt Helen?" His voice broke. "Oh! Aunt Helen!"

She held out her arms and he rushed into them. Ray, Fraser and Elaine silently left the room. Elaine said, "If you guys don't need me anymore, I'm going home." She swiped at her eyes. "I have to call my mom." They wished her good night.

"Me, too," Ray said, excusing himself. "Be right back, Benny."

Fraser stood outside the door until Helen and Dave emerged. They met up with Ray at his desk as he hung up the phone and blew his nose. Ray, Fraser and Dief drove through the night to Aurora on the outer edge of the western suburbs where they put Helen and David on the California Zephyr bound for San Francisco. George Barrowman, Jr., commander of the Coast Guard Station in Oakland, would meet the Zephyr at its terminus.

They watched the train pull away until it disappeared from sight. The rising sun was behind them. Ray clapped Fraser on the shoulder. "Is this what it feels like to be you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Never mind, Benny," he reached into his pocket for the keys. "How about some breakfast before heading back?"

Diefenbaker woofed happily.


	21. Chapter 21

**NOTE FROM AUTHOR: Since I erred in posting the prior chapters properly, I've had to relabel so the posted chapter number matches the number of the chapter in the text. So, this next chapter is called "Chapter 21" but is following Chapter 18. There is no Chapter 19 or 20 in the text now. Confused? Sorry about that, but the flow of the text is correct. Thanks for hanging in. **

**CHAPTER TWENTY ONE**

Diefenbaker hid behind a piling on the pier, the leather notebook clamped tightly between his teeth. He watched as his alpha brother hid in the shadows on the barge while the bad men bustled about the pier, the boat and the warehouse above him. His pack leader was nearly spotted a couple of times by the bad men, whereupon Diefenbaker was ready to render assistance, but each time, the bad men passed by without detecting Ben. Then, the barge cleared the warehouse, moving out into the big water. Dief wanted to howl in anguished frustration, but contented himself with a whine and whimper. He feared he would never see Ben, or his pack-brother, Ray, again. There were many, many bad men and they were only two, and Ray was hurt. He wanted to bite all the bad men at the pier, then swim after the departing barge. But stealth and cunning were what was called for now, and he followed Ben's example. And his instructions. He turned to go with a heavy heart.

Dief kept to the shadows until he cleared the pier. Then, he cut through the deserted warehouse lots and industrial yards north of the city. He came to one dead end where the chainlink fence was too high for him to scale and had to retrace his steps. But his unerring sense of direction led him out to an empty street and he turned south. His kind was nocturnal and thrived in the nighttime, but most of the inhabitants of the city were asleep in their own beds. A few were curled up on the sidewalks and in the alleys. He found one old man lying facedown, his head nearly in a puddle. Dief grasped him by the collar and pulled him away from the water, pushed his snout under his belly, and turned him face up to the sky. The man snored loudly, alcohol saturating his breath. Satisfied that he had done all that he could, Dief continued on his way.

He kept up a steady pace in the direction that Ben had told him to go. The other Home. The place Ben guarded, at attention, in all kinds of weather. The place She could be found. Ben referred to her by many names, "Sir", "Specter", "Thatcher" and once, in a dream, "Meg", but Dief thought of her as She.

She smelled good, but She was a mystery. Both he and Ben agreed on this. But, Diefenbaker was confused as to where She fit in to the scheme of things. She defied the social order of the pack. While Ben was alpha, She was not his mate. And although Ben was undeniably the leader of the pack, it was Ben who did Her bidding, not the other way around. Yet, there was something between them, a complex, mystifying connection that made Dief think that they wanted to be mates, though neither would take the steps to make it so. It was a conundrum to Dief that made his belly hurt if he thought too much on it.

He tried to feel his pack leader out on it, but Ben refused to discuss it. Dief sighed. Sometimes, Ben thought too much. In Dief's opinion, Ben resisted his own nature, denying his needs and desires, when he should give in to them. This was another topic that Ben refused to discuss, especially after the disastrous mating with the One Who Hurt. Ben and Dief had barely survived her wiles. On reflection, Dief supposed that Ben's reticence with She was perhaps in large measure a form of self-preservation, and not just self-denial. But, a squirrel on a high wire caught his attention and he lost that train of thought. Besides, this was the kind of thinking that made Dief's belly hurt. Or maybe, he was just hungry.

A young woman exited an apartment building ahead of him, and hurried down the street, glancing over her shoulder as she did. She wore no coat despite the cold temperature. As he came closer, Dief saw she clutched a torn shirt to her body. He could smell her fear and distress and was about to approach to offer what aid and comfort he could, when a man rushed out of the same doorway. He called angrily to her, and she quickened her pace. The man began to run and would soon overtake her. Dief could smell his violent intentions.

He put on a burst of speed, and hit the man in the back of the knees. He went down heavily. The woman looked over her shoulder once, then ran out into the street to hail a passing taxi. The man cursed and lashed out at Dief, but the wolf stepped nimbly aside. The woman climbed into the taxi, which then made a U-turn in the empty street. As it passed him, she smiled gratefully through her tears. He wagged his tail and grinned at her, then the taxi was gone. The man struggled to his feet and lurched after the wolf. Dief scooped up the notebook and dashed away. A few blocks later, he slowed down. The man had given up his pursuit after half a block.

He spotted half a frankfurter and bun in the gutter, and gobbled it down. He took the opportunity to rest, one paw firmly settled on top of the notebook. He worried about Ben and hoped that he had been able to help Ray. That was the reason Ben had stayed and sent Diefenbaker instead on this vital mission. When your pack-mate was in trouble, you had to help.

Ray was also something of a mystery. Dief had been pleased when he joined the pack, especially as food was often involved. Beta and brother to Ben, he was resourceful and clever, and good for the occasional snack. Unlike Ben and his omega-brother, Turn Fool, though, Ray was not deferential when it came to She. In Dief's opinion, it was his best quality. One he wished he could emulate, at times.

But, because Ben respected She and deferred to her wishes, Diefenbaker did too, though he found it hard to reconcile her conflicting behaviors. Sometimes, She seemed to like having him around and slipped him a treat; at other times, he scurried to get out of the way before She gave him a tongue-lashing that made him glad he'd lost most of his hearing. He was not proud of his avoidance behaviors, but felt better when he saw Ben and Turn Fool act in the same manner. Of course, Turn Fool was not too bright so it was not necessarily a good thing to emulate _his_ behavior. Still, discretion being the better part of valor, it was better to lie low some days in the other Home when She was out of sorts.

As he always did whenever he thought on these puzzlements, Dief came to the conclusion that city packs were just different. A new environment required new rules. A wolf from the North could only adapt.

Dief sniffed the air suddenly. Mmmm, now, that was interesting. He stood and looked in the alley behind him. A female Labrador mix looked seductively back at him. Ears pricked, tongue lolling, Dief trotted over to her, enjoying the rich and stimulating scent of a bitch in heat. She glanced coquettishly at him, then lifted her tail in invitation and moved further into the alley. Dief, suddenly remembering his duty, retrieved the notebook from the curb, then trotted after her. A few minutes later, he was on his way again, the notebook in his mouth, his mission on his mind. But, there was a new spring in his step. And a new thought in his head: the tundra was never like this.


	22. Chapter 22

**CHAPTER TWENTY** **TWO**

"Got any more of that stuff?" Ray asked.

Fraser handed him a piece of pemmican from the pouch in his pocket and took a piece for himself.

"What's in it?" As he started to explain, Ray remembered who he was talking to and stopped him. "Wait! Do I want to know?"

Fraser chewed thoughtfully, before replying, "I think so."

"OK, tell me."

"Venison, suet, raisins," he said, then pausing to chew, added, "And ... this is a tad unconventional, Ray ... I added a handful of dried figs to this batch."

"You're a wild man." He chewed and swallowed. "Tasty. Wish I had a beer to chase it with."

"Peach juice?" Fraser asked, holding up a can.

He grimaced. "I think I've had my limit."

The tug chugged along through the night, still on the northeast heading. Ray and Fraser were now hunkered down in the big crate. Fraser had untied the ropes holding the tarps in place, prying up the nails in the lid with his boot knife. The crate was full of cardboard cases marked "canned peaches in heavy syrup." To make room inside, he had handed out the cartons to Ray, who had opened the boxes and confirmed the contents were indeed peaches, before deep-sixing them. Fraser hadn't liked dumping the cartons overboard, but there was no alternative. When the crate was emptied enough, Fraser climbed in and lifted more cases out. One carton was too light. When Ray opened it, he found a large sealed plastic bag containing a white powder.

"Whaddya want to bet? Flour for the pie crust?" he said, looking down at Fraser in the crate.

"I'm not a gambling man," he said. "But if I was, I still wouldn't take that bet."

Ray cut the bag open, confirming what they already knew. Cocaine. They found five more bags. The rest of the cases were, indeed, peaches in heavy syrup. Ray kept one bag intact as evidence, slit the others open, and dumped the cocaine overboard. Fraser would not allow him to dump the plastic bags. He rolled them tightly and stuffed them into the pocket of his jacket.

"Ray, if you've ever seen an Arctic tern dead after swallowing a plastic bag it thought was a fish, you'd understand," he explained.

Ray couldn't argue with that. The discovery helped explain why they were cruising so far into Lake Michigan. It was a two-fer, he told Fraser. Not just a body disposal operation, but a delivery, too. To where and to whom, only time would tell. And there were more than five bags of cocaine on this old barge, he knew. He would bet every crate had a hidden treasure in the midst of its more prosaic contents.

They left the last few cartons of peaches. They made handy seats. They could sit on the cartons and still have a foot of headroom. It took them about an hour to complete their task, being careful to keep the light to a minimum and their body movements below eye level. The men in the tugboat had taken no notice of their activities.

They climbed in to the crate. Fraser had cleverly rigged the lid from the inside with some of the rope, creating a system of knots and pulleys which pulled the lid in place. They had tested it before climbing in. Once engaged, it looked secure and untampered with. Even the tarp was pulled taut. In reality, a flick of the wrist and a quick shove and the lid would be off.

It was close quarters, and smelled of lumber, peaches, and men who hadn't bathed since yesterday, but it was not too uncomfortable. And, Ray had to admit, it was a lot cozier as their body heat warmed the enclosed space. For now, they had the lid off for fresh air. Through the open space, they could see the stars. Away from the light pollution of the city, the star field was an incredible sight.

"What's that clump there?" he said, pointing up.

Fraser followed his pointing finger. "The Pleiades." He added, "The Inuit call it Sakiattiaq."

"And those three in a row?"

"That's the belt of Orion."

"Which the Inuit call the Suspenders," he joked.

Fraser chuckled.

Ray, whose watch did not have a luminous dial, asked, "What time is it?"

Fraser looked at his wrist. "5:01."

"What time is sunrise?"

"7:13"

"Huh." After a while, he said, "What time is it now?"

"5:04"

"There sure are a lot of stars up there."

"Yes."

Ray stared upwards. "The more you look, the more you see. It's almost like they're swallowing up the black space." He sighed. "What time is it?"

"5:08." Fraser answered, settling against his side of the crate. He closed his eyes.

"I hate waiting," he muttered, stating the obvious. "What time is it now?"

"5:13," he replied, then said. "Ray, do you know the story of "Nightfall?"

"Inuit?"

"Asimov."

"Nope. Sci-fi, right?"

"Science fiction," he corrected, automatically, then continued before Ray could ask for the time again. "It's set on a planet located at the galactic core." He pointed out the hazy contours of the Milky Way. "Right in the center, there. In the short story, the planet has a complicated orbit. There are six suns that never completely set. So, on this world, it's always daylight. Imagine the North Pole in summer, only all the time."

Ray tried, but he couldn't imagine the North Pole at all, summer or winter.

"They don't even have words for the concept of night, or dawn, or stars. They never invented candles or lanterns or electric light. It's _always_ light." Fraser paused. "Except once, every fifty thousand years or so. Then, there is a convergence of celestial bodies. All the suns set. And the world goes dark."

Ray took another bite of pemmican and chewed. He settled back against the crate.

Fraser's voice took on the resonance and rhythm that Ray thought of as his 'storyteller' mode. "It's a modern civilization, like ours, scientific, erudite. But, the planet is about to experience darkness for the first time in living memory. The astronomers have precisely calculated the movements of the suns and the planet. All the world is looking up for this unique event, some from a scientific point of view, some religious, many with a festive attitude."

Ray grinned, "Like Y2K in a few years?"

"Well, that's a manmade event, Ray, not a natural phenomenon," he paused in thought. "But an apt analogy, nonetheless." He continued, "The story takes place on the day that night will fall. There is anticipation, curiosity. But, there is also an ominous note. Archaeologists have found evidence of past civilizations in the geologic record. And, a mysterious layer of ash separating the epochs. Every fifty thousand years, it appears that all the world's cities burn, society collapses, and the world enters a 'dark age'. Not literally dark, of course, because the suns do come up again. But a period of savagery ensues where the world descends to primitive prehistoric levels, before civilization slowly and painfully returns. Only to burn, leaving nothing behind. Except ash. Again and again, the cycle repeats itself. Every fifty thousand years."

Ray had stopped chewing and was looking up at the night sky, mesmerized.

His face lit by starlight, Fraser continued, "Before the suns go dark, psychologists try an experiment where volunteers on this bright world are put in artificially darkened spaces. But, the subjects can't tolerate the darkness. They become too agitated, panicked. Like a claustrophobic, who is locked in a confined space."

"Like a crate," Ray said, dreamily.

"Exactly," he said. "As nightfall approaches, one scientist puts it all together. He theorizes that the unaccustomed darkness incites a mass insanity in the people of a world who have never known darkness. In their madness, they crave light above all else. To create light, they burn ... everything. As each of the six suns sets, one by one, and total darkness approaches, his fellow scientists, panic clawing at their throats, begin to believe that his theory is correct. But it is too late. The world goes dark."

"And then they go mad?" Ray asked, quietly, his eyes riveted on their patch of sky.

"No."

"No?"

"No, Ray, it's not the darkness that drives the world mad." He turned his face up to the night sky. "They go mad when the stars come out."

Ray stared up at the star-strewn darkness. As he watched, more stars appeared. And more. And even more.

"_All_ the stars come out," Fraser intoned. "Not the mere thirty six hundred stars visible from our Earth, perched as we are on the far rim of the galaxy. No, this planet inhabits the center of the galactic cluster. Thirty _thousand_ stars bore down on the people with a soul-searing intensity."

Ray shivered. A shooting star flashed across the sky, then vanished.

Fraser's voice grew in intensity. "Imagine those stars, Ray. Frighteningly cold, horribly indifferent, causing black terror and hopeless fear beyond bearing." His voice was seductive, hypnotic. "The Dark and the Cold and the Doom had found the people of this world. It crushed them, and squeezed them and obliterated them till they all went mad. Until, they burned everything so they couldn't see the stars anymore. And, in their madness, they burned and burned and burned. For the long night had come again."

As if from a great distance, Ray heard a voice. He blinked.

"... ray ... ray ... ray ... Ray!"

Ray shook himself. He pulled his enthralled gaze away from the sky, then punched Fraser in the arm.

"Ow!"

"What the hell is wrong with you?!"

"What?!" he asked, rubbing his arm.

"Telling a story like that out here?! With that," he pointed at the night, "up there!"

"I'm sorry," he said, surprised. "I thought it would help pass the time."

"Pass the time? Jeez, Benny! How would you like it if I started telling ghost stories?" Before he could answer, Ray waggled both hands at him, fingers spread, and wailed, banshee-like, "Woooooooooo! Here comes Resurrection Mary in her long white dress!" He put a hand to one ear, "What's that I hear! Why it's Mrs. O'Leary's cow, with her ghostly cowbell round her skeleton neck!" He cringed, dramatically and pointed. "Woooooooo! Look, there's Vinnie and Joey! They're covered in maple syrup! Back from the dead to haunt our crate! Woooooooooo!"

"OK! OK!" he said, defensively. "Sorry."

"Yeah, you should be," he muttered, pulling his coat closer. "What time is it?"

"Time to ... you know," Fraser said, standing up.

"Use the can?" he snickered.

"Very funny, Ray." He grabbed the empty peaches can they had been using as a urinal. They were taking advantage of the darkness to use the can out on deck, then pitch the contents overboard. The atmosphere in the crate would get ripe quickly once daylight limited their movements. He stepped up on the carton and started to climb out. "And, for the record, I'm not afraid of ghosts," he said, over his shoulder.

"BOO!"

Fraser yelped and fell off the carton, landing nearly in Ray's lap. His father peered down from above, grinning broadly.

"Gotcha, son!"

Ray pushed him up and off irritably, as he worked to right himself and calm his racing heart. "Knock it off, Benny," he growled. "I'm spooked enough out here without you making it worse."

"Sorry, Ray," he muttered, then said, glaring upwards, "I'm not afraid of ghosts. I just don'tlike them dropping in where they're not wanted." Gathering the shreds of his dignity around him like a cloak, he climbed out of the crate and moved to the back of the barge.

"You have to admit that was pretty funny, son," his father said.

"Do you mind, Dad?" Fraser said, turning away slightly.

"Oh, don't be so modest."

"I'm not. But your surprise appearances are making me look like an idiot," he grumbled.

"You don't need my help for that, son."

"Oh, thanks a lot, Dad. That's really helpful."

"Well, just look at the predicament you got yourself into here. I didn't do that."

"I could hardly leave Ray alone, to be discovered by mobsters under a pile of bodies, in the middle of the Lake they call Michigan," he protested.

"You need a plan, son."

"We have a plan."

"Hiding in a crate? That's the plan?"

"It's part of one," he said, defensively. "The rest ... we have to play by ear."

"That sounds like something the Yank would say."

"Well, he's not wrong," Fraser finished and zipped up. He maneuvered between stacks of crates to the edge of the barge, tested the wind direction with a finger, and tossed the contents of the can over the side.

His father rocked back on his heels. "This reminds me of the time Buck Frobisher and I were ..."

"Were you and Buck ever stranded on a barge in the middle of a Lake with two dead bodies, outnumbered and outgunned by drug-dealing mobsters, while hiding in a crate filled with canned peaches?"

"Well, no. Not exactly," Fraser, Sr. said, frowning.

"Then, I don't see how this helps, Dad." He walked cautiously back to the middle of the barge, leaving his father on the stern. "I'm coming in, Ray."

He maneuvered himself back on to his perch on the carton of canned peaches. "It'll be dawn in about an hour." He set the can he had used in the furthest corner and settled back. Ray didn't answer. He was turned away, his shoulder resting on the side of the crate, his head hanging down. Fraser thought he might be sleeping. But something in his posture looked unnatural and made him uneasy. He reached over and touched his shoulder.

"Ray? You alright?" When there was no response, he shook him harder. Perhaps, he had sustained a concussion in the fall after all. "Ray!"

Ray suddenly spun towards him, emitting a maniacal laugh. His face, twisted in a grusome leer, was lit from below giving it a wicked cast. With a gasp, Fraser reared back and nearly fell off his seat. Ray clicked off the flashlight under his chin, shaking with laughter. "I gotcha! You were spooked!"

"No, Ray, I was concerned ..."

"Admit it. I scared you!"

"I was surprised ..."

"Come on, you screamed like a little girl!"

"I certainly did not! I was startled ..."

"Don't deny it, Benny!"

He gave up. "Alright. You spooked me, Ray." He punched him lightly in the arm. "Knock it off."

Ray grinned and returned the flashlight to his pocket. "Even Steven, then?"

"Even Steven."

They sat in silence. After a while, Ray said, "What time is it, Benny?"

With a sigh, Fraser told him.


	23. Chapter 23

**CHAPTER TWENTY THREE**

Inspector Thatcher jumped out of the cab, dashed up the steps and entered the Consulate. As she turned to pull the door shut behind her, she nearly tripped over the white wolf that was in her path. She swatted irritably at the animal, pushing him out of her way. She was late. Dinner with the Costa Rican attache had extended into breakfast. She had dashed home to shower and change before coming in to the office. It was after ten. She didn't have time to play with Fraser's pet.

He followed her all the way up the stairs to her office, tugging on her pants leg at one point.

"Shoo, shoo," she said, shaking her foot, then pushed the door shut with the wolf on the other side. He whined and scratched at the door.

She went to her desk, took a look at what was on it, then strode back to the door. She flung it open and bellowed, "Turnbull!"

Diefenbaker scooted into the room.

"Turnbull!"

"Yes, ma'am!" he said, breathlessly, screeching to a halt at the door.

"What is all this?" She gestured at her desk. Diefenbaker was up on his hind legs, front paws on the desk.

"A request from Constable Fraser, ma'am."

Diefenbaker whined, then put his head back and howled. It was an unearthly sound in the enclosed space that made the hairs on the back of Thatcher's neck stand up. It also ratcheted up her headache several levels of intensity.

"Stop that!" she snapped. The wolf cut off mid-howl and looked at her. "Do that again, and so help me, Diefenbaker, I'll have you crated up and shipped to Baffin Island before you know what hit you."

Dief cringed and got down. He slunk under the desk.

She turned back to Turnbull. "Tell Fraser to come get his wolf-"

"He's not here, ma'am. I haven't seen him since yesterday morning."

Neither had she. Not since their conversation in the Consulate library. "Oh, when did he call?"

"Uh, he didn't, ma'am," Turnbull explained. "He sent a note."

"A note?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"What does he want all this for?"

"He didn't say, ma'am." He stood at attention. "I assumed a breakfast meeting."

"Here? With whom is he meeting?"

He cocked his head in confusion. "I assumed that you were the one having the meeting, ma'am."

"Am I?" She rushed to her desk to check her schedule.

"It wasn't on your calendar, ma'am." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "I assumed it was a secret meeting. Need to know only."

She stared at him. "Let me see the note."

Before Turnbull could fish it out of her wastebasket, Diefenbaker had it in his mouth and was offering it to her. She took the slightly damp paper from him with a little moue of distaste, then smoothed out the crumpled sheet on her desk. She squinted at it, then reached into her pocket and retrieved her eyeglasses. She perched them on her nose.

"This does not look like Constable Fraser's handwriting, Constable."

"No, ma'am. But, its authenticity is undeniable."

She sighed, pushed up the glasses, and rubbed the spot between her eyes where the headache was centered. "From the beginning."

"Yes, ma'am." He took a breath. "When I arrived at the Consulate at 0800 hours, Diefenbaker was waiting on the front stoop. He had this note in his mouth." He paused. "Well, actually, he had Constable Fraser's notebook in his mouth."

"Let me see."

Turnbull dashed to Fraser's office and retrieved the item from his desk. He handed her the small leatherbound notebook. The initials "B.F." were tooled on the front bottom corner in a simple script. She had seen Fraser use the notepad on countless occasions. There were toothmarks on both sides of the leather. Diefenbaker's, no doubt. She flipped through the pages. They were blank.

"I removed this note from the pad. It was the only page with writing."

She squinted at the note again.

"It _is_ rather sloppy, ma'am," he looked pained at the criticism of his fellow officer, but continued, "and unlike Constable Fraser's usual meticulous hand, but considering the source, I could not doubt its provenance." He continued. "I proceeded immediately to the HeavenScent Bakery and obtained the requested items." He looked chagrined. "I had to use my own discretion as to quantity. But, then, I figured, you can never go wrong with extra fiber."

Thatcher looked at the two dozen bran muffins arranged prettily in the basket lined with a linen napkin.

"And this?" She pointed to a large silver carafe.

He looked proud. "I brewed the bark tea, myself, ma'am. From Constable Fraser's stores in the kitchen here." He explained, "The local coffee shops don't carry it."

"And these," she said, pointing to the small box.

"There is no one more conscientious when it comes to dental hygiene than Constable Fraser."

Thatcher looked at the note again, frowning. This barely legible scrawl was so unlike Fraser. She thrust the note into Turnbull's hand. "Read it," she ordered. "Aloud."

"Well, I had to make a few intuitive leaps, but let me see." He cleared his throat, and intoned, "'Bran muffins. Bark Tea. Toothpicks. Napkins.'"

She blew out a breath, riffling her hair. She grabbed the note and squinted at it. "I don't think this means what you think it means." She straightened and took off her glasses. "Get the car." As he rushed to comply, she looked down at Diefenbaker. He was sitting with his head cocked, looking intently at her.

"This note is not about breakfast, is it?" she asked, speaking slowly and directly to the animal.

He woofed in confirmation, then looked longingly at the muffins.

Her own stomach rumbled. She'd skipped breakfast in her haste to get to work. She took a muffin and divided it. She gave half to Dief.

"Just this once," she said, then took a bite of her half. "Mmmm. Good muffin."

Dief yipped enthusiastically. Thatcher ate hurriedly, then wiped her hands on the floral napkins stacked on the desk. She heard the toot of the horn of the Consulate car, grabbed the note and the basket of muffins and herded Deifenbaker out ahead of her.

"Where to, ma'am?" Turnbull asked, as she climbed in the back.

"Twenty-seventh precinct," she said, before splitting another muffin with Dief.


	24. Chapter 24

**CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR **

Ray checked the compass again. Northeast. Steady as she goes. Wasn't that a nautical saying? If he wasn't cooped up in this four by six crate with another guy, he might actually enjoy being out on the Lake. Today was warmer than yesterday, bright, less windy. He checked his watch. 10:30 am. Time for his exercises. Every half hour, he performed confined space stretching and isometric exercises that Fraser had shown him As he had pointed out, it was important to keep limber and not let muscles stiffen up. Quick action might be required at a moment's notice. It also helped Ray to keep warm and pass the time. Which was going very slowly, indeed.

He did the exercises quietly, trying not to disturb his roommate. Fraser was slumped against his side of the crate, arms crossed, chin resting on his chest. He appeared sound asleep, his breathing regular, his body relaxed. Well, as relaxed as you can be sitting up in a crate. They were switching off sleep shifts every two hours. Fraser could apparently sleep anywhere, anytime, through anything, yet be up and alert instantly. Ray had tried, but he hadn't been able to fall asleep when it was his turn. Even, though his eyes were gritty and his muscles sore and he craved surcease.

Ray looked at his watch, again. He had been of the opinion that the goons would dump the bodies under the cloak of darkness. Fraser had disagreed. He thought that the boating maneuvers required to board the barge were tricky enough in daylight. Executing them in darkness would only add to the danger. The odds of being seen by passing boats or the Coast Guard in the middle of the Lake they call Michigan in the middle of the winter were infinitesimally low, he had pointed out, even in broad daylight. Ray had to admit that his reasoning was sound and borne out by the fact that Vinnie and Joey had yet to sleep with the fishes. He rubbed the back of his head. It was tender and he still had a small headache. The nausea and dizziness had passed quickly, though. If he could only get a decent night's rest in his own bed, he'd be good as new. He sighed. Like that was gonna happen.

Fraser sat bolt upright. "Ray," he said, quietly.

"What?" Then, Ray too heard the change in the tug's engine noise as it was throttled back. Fraser pulled the rope. The lid of the crate slid smoothly into place. They strained to hear. Forward momentum had ceased. The barge bobbed in the water. The engine sound got louder, closer, then throttled back to a low growl. They inferred that the cable had been disengaged and the tug had maneuvered alongside the barge. That surmise was proved true when the sound of voices drew close to their position.

Fraser pressed an ear against the crate. Ray drew his gun and held it in a two-handed grip pointing up. Then, he put his ear to his side of the crate. There were definitely men on the barge now.

"Jim, gimme a hand with these chains," a man said. There was a metallic rattling sound from the direction of where Vinnie and Joey's bodies lay on the deck. "OK, wrap em up so they're good and tight. Grab his feet." The conclusion was obvious. They were preparing to dump the bodies overboard. In the wee hours, Fraser and Ray had discussed what they would do about it when it happened. While they abhorred the loss of the evidence, the _corpus delicti,_ as Fraser called it, they were not in a position to do anything about it. Not without joining Vinnie and Joey at the bottom of the Lake. There were a few grunts, a couple of curses, the rattle of chains, and a splash. Ray winced. The sounds were repeated. It seemed wrong to him, for anybody, even murderous scumbags like Vinnie and Joey, to be dumped like this, as if they were no more than yesterday's garbage. In the light that filtered through the crate, their eyes met and he knew that Fraser shared his thought.

There was a lot of shouting as men on the barge and men on the boat tried to make themselves heard over the engine noise. Ray waited anxiously, expecting to hear the sounds of crates and boxes being moved around, or hoisted up, or something. After half an hour, he lifted a questioning eyebrow at Fraser. He gave a shake of his head, affirming his own ignorance. Then, their crate rocked slightly. Both men stiffened, Ray tightened his grip on his gun, Fraser kept the rope taut, and reached for his boot knife. After a moment, Ray smelled smoke. He groaned internally. Of all the crates on this godforsaken barge, the smoker had to pick theirs to lean against as he lit up. He hated cigarettes and waved his hand in front of his face, hoping he wouldn't sneeze.

"What time is it?" a voice asked.

Ray nearly jumped out of his skin when the reply came from right next to him, just outside the crate. "About 11."

"It won't be long, now," the first man said. "Hey, did ya see the Bulls game the other night?"

"Yeah, that shot that Jordan made in overtime was somethin." The conversation continued on in this vein.

Ray was glad to hear that "it" wouldn't be long. He hated waiting. Not that he had any idea what "it" was. He glanced sideways at Fraser and had to stifle a giggle. Something about the picture he made, squatting on a box of canned peaches in a big wooden crate on a barge in the middle of Lake Michigan, ear pressed against the wood, fist clutching the rope that held the lid in place, eyes closed as he listened intently to the chatter of armed gunmen outside the thins walls of their makeshift shelter, struck Ray as funny all of a sudden. The path that had led them here, as in so many of his misadventures with Fraser, was so ridiculous, so patently absurd ... He could hear himself trying to explain in the future. _Well, you see, Your Honor, it all started with the blueberry pancakes _... A ripple of laughter threatened to erupt and he struggled to suppress it. It was harder to tamp down than a sneeze.

Fraser felt his spastic movement and turned to look at him. His expression of concern amused Ray even more. He looked away, biting his lip as he thought of depressing things. A mental image formed of Fraser, shot full of holes, blood and peach syrup mingling in the bottom of the crate. That stopped the laughter bubbling up inside. He shrugged, sheepishly. Fraser saw that he was OK and closed his eyes again.

They sat like that for another half hour, eavesdropping on the two men outside the crate as they chatted in a desultory way about nothing in particular. Ray was in serious need of using the can, when he heard two long pulls on a boat horn from a distance away. The answering toots were so loud he had to put his fingers in his ears. A boat was approaching, and "their" tugboat had answered its greeting.

"It's a rendezvous," he whispered in Fraser's ear. "Time to be unloaded."

He nodded, tightening his grip on the rope and knife. They heard the exchange of boat horns a few more times, each time indicating that the approaching boat was getting closer while their tugboat stayed relatively stationary alongside the barge.

"Break time's over, Jack," said the man on Ray's side of the crate.

"Good. I wanna get home. Hawks play tonight," Jack replied. They moved away from the crate, exchanging a shouted conversation with their tugboat, something to do with ropes and lines and knots that Ray couldn't follow.

After a while, they heard the sound of another engine close by, on the opposite side of the barge. More shouting, though Ray was having trouble making out the words. He cupped a hand to his ear.

"A rat! A rat!," someone shouted. There was a thud and the barge lurched sideways. Ray and Fraser nearly fell off their peach cartons. "Murt!" Ray wanted to laugh. The oncoming boat had bumped the barge, probably not hard enough to do any damage. Murt must have been too bothered by the rat to pay attention to what he was doing.

"I hate rats," he muttered.

Fraser blinked at the _non sequitur_. "So, does Dief," he whispered. Then, he realized his error. "No, Ray. He said, '_arret'_, not 'a rat'"

"Right, 'a rat,'" he shot back. "I hate 'em."

"It's Quebecois French, Ray," he explained. "_'Arret_'" means "stop."

"Oh," he said, "well, Murt didn't listen. He hit the barge."

Fraser looked down at his feet, rubbing his eyebrow with a thumb. "_Merde_, Ray. He said, '_merde.'_"

"Oh." He looked a question at the unfamiliar word.

Fraser shrugged eloquently. "As in, _merde_ happens."

"Ah." They hadn't taught that one in French class.

Heavy footsteps sounded from the far side of the barge, approached their crate, and stopped. More footfalls came from the near side of the barge, then stopped near the crate. Logical. The crate was situated in the only open part of the barge, the only space large enough for a gathering, now that Vinnie and Joey were out of the way. They heard several voices. Greetings were exchanged, not hostile, but not chummy either, Ray thought. Nothing personal. This was business.

He glanced over at Fraser, who was looking pretty excited. Well, excited for Fraser. Ray could imagine what he was thinking. Here at last may be his Holy Grail. The missing link between the Chicago mob and the Canadian maple syrup. Whatever deal was going down was happening right outside their crate. They were in the thick of it.

"Nice day." An American voice.

"Faire beau soleil," came the reply. "But a storm is coming," he added, in English, tinged with a French accent.

"Right. Let's do it," said the American.

"Oui," said the Frenchman. French-Canadian man, Ray corrected.

"Twenty keys, ten casesAKs."

"Fifty cases Oxy, twenty five barrels whiskey," said the Canadian. "And five more of liquid gold. Tell your boss to hang on to them this time."

The American snorted. "Yeah, right. Maybe you should tell him. I like breathing too much."

Ray was stunned. They were talking a mega- exchange of illegal goodies out here in the middle of nowhere. Cocaine and assault weapons coming from the American side; Oxycontin, whiskey and bootleg maple syrup from the Canuck side. The implications were staggering. Not only for the size of the transaction, which was monumental. But the variety! It was like one-stop shopping for bad guys. From what he could hear, it appeared to Ray that no actual money was changing hands, or at least, not at this transfer point. It was also clear that this was not the first time such an exchange had happened. There was a sense of past dealing, a flavor of routine between the two sides.

The deal was done. The men dispersed. The loading and unloading had to start soon. Especially, if a storm was coming. Ray was surprised that such a large quantity of cargo would be exchanged in the middle of the Lake in broad daylight, but like Fraser said, it was a dangerous enterprise made even more dangerous at night. And now it seemed that two vessels were going to be unloaded and loaded? He traded glances with Fraser. If they were going to be discovered, it would most likely happen while their American crate was being loaded on to the Canadian boat.

For the next half hour, they heard a lot of activity, shouts of men yelling orders back and forth to each other. No one came near their crate, however. Then, they heard the roar of the tugboat engine on their near side. It tooted its horn twice, then cruised away, the sound of its engine dwindling. Ray looked at Fraser who looked back at him.

"We're not being unloaded?" he whispered, puzzled.

Fraser shook his head, equally mysified. "I think –" Whatever he thought, he never said, because there were two toots of the horn of the boat on the far side. Its engine started and the barge lurched forward.

"We're _not_ being unloaded!"

"No, Ray," he said, looking as stunned as Ray felt.

"Huh." Ray slumped back against the crate. So, that was how they cut the risk of discovery. The barges were exchanged - lock, stock and barrel. No cumbersome unloading required.

"Where are we going now?"

Fraser hesitated, then said, "I think we're going to Canada."

"Merde," Ray said, with feeling.


	25. Chapter 25

**CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE**

Lieutenant Welsh took a bite of muffin, chewed appreciatively, and said, "All right, Inspector. Let's see if I can sum this up." Thatcher sat in the chair across from his desk. "They left here yesterday around noon. Vecchio told Elaine they were checking out the rented rooms of the two murder victims."

"That fits. Fraser told me they hoped to uncover the connection between the murders, the Mob, and the maple syrup."

"Elaine said they took the wolf with them."

Dief yipped from his spot on the floor. He returned to his muffin.

"Elaine called Vecchio's sister. Francesca."

Thatcher nodded. She had met the brash young woman.

"Vecchio left a message on the answering machine around four pm that he wouldn't be home for dinner. He didn't come home at all, last night." He sighed. "That happens from time to time when he's working a case, so the family wasn't alarmed." He added. "Until now."

She leaned forward in her chair. "I sent Turnbull to Fraser's apartment. He's not there.

"Doesn't that make him A.W.O.L.?"

"No."

Welsh waited for more. "I thought he only worked with Vecchio on his own time."

She cleared her throat. "I excused him from other duties so he could work this case," she said, not meeting his eyes. "After all, there is a Canadian connection."

"Ri- ight," he said. Interesting. "So, no one has seen or heard from them since four o'clock yesterday afternoon."

Dief made a noise.

"Except for Diefenbaker," he acknowledged. "What makes you think they're in trouble? Maybe they're just following a hot lead."

"That," she said, pointing at the paper on his desk, "is a call for help. Fraser sent that to me, via the wolf. It means that he was unable to communicate through more conventional methods. I find that ... ominous."

Welsh conceded her point. "You may be right. Vecchio's not answering his radio or cell phone. So," he looked down at the paper on his desk, "all we got is this note." He picked it up, squinting. "Which we can't make out."

"I'm sure Fraser had a good reason for making the note illegible," she said, defensively.

"This isn't some weird kind of Canadian code, is it?"

"No!" she retorted, "I just meant that there must be a good reason that he could not make it more legible. As a rule, the Constable's penmanship is perfect."

"Except this time," he muttered. "So, he had to scribble this. Perhaps in haste. Or in the dark? Or a moving vehicle?"

Dief barked three times.

"Perhaps all of the above?"

He barked once.

"OK," Welsh said, getting to his feet. "We'll keep the maple syrup details to ourselves. But I want as many brains on this as possible. Turnbull, too."

She followed him as he gathered up Elaine, Huey and Guardino. He stopped at the copy machine while she grabbed Turnbull. They entered Interview 1 in a parade, Diefenbaker bringing up the rear.

Welsh waited until everyone was seated. "OK, people, listen up. You know that Vecchio and Fraser were working on a mob connection to the two young men who were murdered the day before yesterday. Now, it appears they've gone missing." Heads nodded. "Fraser sent a message in care of the wolf. We've got to figure out what he was trying to tell us." He gave each of them a photocopy of the note and taped the original to the blackboard. "Read it and give me your thoughts."

As Turnbull opened his mouth, Thatcher said, for his ears only, "So help me, Constable, if you mention bran muffins or bark tea, you'll be on sentry duty till next Christmas." He subsided, without comment.

"That first word looks like 'brain' to me," Huey said.

"Nah," Guardino said, "it's Brian. That was the vic in the Camaro."

"I think it's bran," Elaine said. Turnbull's head jerked up. "I think that's a period. Here. 'B-R-A-N' period."

"Ooh, ooh, I know." All eyes were on Turnbull. "Branson!" he exclaimed. "Constable Fraser is quite the aficionado of country music."

Everyone looked at him. Then, Welsh said, not unkindly. "I doubt they'd send the wolf to tell us about a concert."

"Oh, but Branson is much more–" He subsided as the Inspector savagely jabbed her elbow into his ribs.

Welsh continued. "OK, let's assume Elaine is on the right track. Let's try place names in the city beginning with BRAN."

Elaine had left the room and was back, holding a City street directory. She read from it. "Brand Avenue, Brandon Avenue, Brant Street."

"Good, good. Write those down."

Elaine wrote 'BRAN' in large letters on the blackboard, then the street names under it.

"Any other ideas? Anybody?" Welsh said. All he got were blank stares in response. "OK, what about this next bit?"

.

"MRF?" Huey said.

"Nah, it's MUF," said Guardino.

Elaine squinted at her copy. "I think it's MRT?"

Guardino blurted. "There's a Brant Street Market!"

"Yeah, that second kid was killed outside a market!" Huey chimed.

"Write that down, Elaine," Welsh instructed.

Thatcher frowned. "I don't know." She held her photocopy up to her eyes and squinted at it.

"Perhaps, sir, your glasses–" Turnbull began, then stopped at her withering look.

"I don't think that's an 'M.' I think it's a 'W,'" she said, still squinting. "Fraser always starts his 'M's with a little loop. There's no loop here."

"Are you sure?"

"No, of course not, Lieutenant. Not in this instance. But, his customary script always contains the loop."

"W?" Elaine said, wrinkling her brow in thought. "Then, WRF?"

Welsh slapped a hand to his forehead and looked at Thatcher. "The barrels," he exclaimed. "In the Lake!"

Everyone but Thatcher looked at him, mystified. This was one of the details that only Welsh and Thatcher were privy to.

"Waterfront? Like a wharf? WRF?" She said. "BRAN. Wharf?"

The Chicagoans shouted in unison, "Brannigan's Wharf!"

Thatcher put a hand to her ear. On her left, Detective Huey's response had been particularly enthusiastic.

"So, this next part may be related to the waterfront," he said. "BARN ... barnacles?"

"No, no," Guardino said, excitedly, "it's 'BARF'! I always barf when I'm on a boat!" He turned to Thatcher. "Does Fraser get seasick?"

"I don't know, Detective," she retorted, "but if he did, Constable Fraser would purge, or vomit, or regurgitate. A Mountie never barfs!"

Elaine giggled, then sobered when the Inspector shot her a frosty look.

"Let's assume, for the sake of argument, that Constable Fraser, a competent, experienced police officer with little time to write this message, is attempting to give us _relevant_ information," Welsh said, peering through his glasses at Guardino.

Elaine piped up. "Maybe it's the name of a boat?"

He snapped his fingers. "Or a _type _of boat. B-A-R-G. Barge." He grinned. "Now, we're getting somewhere."

"Yes, of course," Thatcher said. "Brannigan's Wharf. Barge. It makes sense. Write that down, Elaine."

Diefenbaker barked excitedly when she finished writing.

"Well, the wolf seems to agree," Welsh said, drily. "I suppose that's something."

"What about this last part?" Huey said.

"T-P-K- and N-A-R?" Guardino sounded it out. "Turnpike Narrows? You got turnpikes in Canada?"

"We have tollways," Thatcher said, speculatively. "We do not generally refer to them as 'turnpikes.'"

Elaine consulted her directory. "That's what we call them around here too. But Ohio has a Turnpike."

"So, does Pennsylvania," Welsh said.

"And Jersey," Guardino said. "I used to live in Jersey, you know."

"None of which are close to Brannigan's Wharf," Thatcher said, frowning.

"TPK, TPK. Hmmm," Welsh said, thoughtfully. "That was a term sonar operators used when I was in the Navy. It means 'Turns Per Knot'. It had something to do with the screws on an approaching ship. A way to identify them, like a signature." He frowned. "Would Fraser know about something like that, coming from the Great Frozen North?"

She shrugged. "He reads a lot. Still, that's promising. At least, it's a marine reference."

"What about this last bit? N-A-R. NARCO? Narcotics?" Huey asked.

"I thought it was N-O-R -something. Not N-A-R," Elaine said. "Not NORTH, I don't think. Maybe a name. N-O-R-A?"

"NORAD?" Guardino asked.

The room fell silent. Finally, Thatcher broke it. "Lieutenant, is TPK also used in radar parlance, as well as sonar?"

"Could be," he said, somberly. "Could be."

"What's NORAD?" Elaine asked. "And why are you all looking so grim?"

There was a pregnant pause, then Thatcher spoke. "North American Aerospace Defense Command," she said. "It's a joint American-Canadian defense system that monitors and responds to air, space and sea threats." She cleared her dry throat. "Including nuclear threats."

"Y-you mean, like in_ Dr. Strangelove_?" she asked, her hand going to her throat.

Thatcher nodded. "I really don't know much about it beyond the basics. That's a bit outside my bailiwick." Her voice squeaked on that last word and she swallowed.

Everyone started talking all at the same time:

"Holy shit! If we're talking nukes here, we'll have to evacuate the city," Guardino said, standing up. "I gotta call my mom and dad."

"What do we do, Lieu? Contact the army? I gotta friend at Scott Air Force base," Huey said. "He's only a sergeant, but ..."

Thatcher said, almost to herself. "I don't have clearance for that kind of thing. I'd have to call Ottawa, but who ...?"

Elaine said, "I thought this was all behind us when the Soviet Union broke up –"

Turnbull said, "There's an old fallout shelter in the basement of the Consulate, sir. We can provision it with Constable Fraser's latest batch of pemmican and –"

"Everybody shut up! Sit down, Guardino!" Welsh bellowed. "Let's not panic, people!"

Guardino sat. All eyes were on the Lieutenant as he said, "Before we go down the path of declaring DEFCON ONE, I want to be damn sure of our facts." He pointed to the note taped to the blackboard. "Anybody have any other thoughts?"

Turnbull shifted uncomfortably in his seat, glancing surreptitiously at Thatcher.

"Yes, Constable," Welsh said. "I don't think we've heard from you on this last bit?"

He hesitated, remembering the Inspector's warning. "I am very familiar with Constable Fraser's handwriting, sir. I must respectfully disagree," he said, apologetically. "I don't think that it's N-O-R. I thought it was N-A-P, since that went with the bran muf - uh ... well, never mind. My point is that now, in light of the discussion, I think it's N-A-R. And the bit just before that, TPK. Well, you might think this is silly, but I immediately thought 'Toothpick.' Now, Toothpick N-A-R doesn't make sense–"

"Turnbull," Welsh exclaimed, "you're a genius!" All the Americans grinned, immensely relieved not to be on the verge of global thermonuclear war. Guardino patted his back, enthusiastically.

Turnbull, who had never ever in his life been called a genius, beamed, though he was unsure what he had done to earn the compliment.

"What?!" Thatcher said, loudly. "What in heaven's name is a Toothpick N-A-R?"

"You mean, who." Welsh said. "Toothpick Nardo is one of the scummiest wiseguys in Chicago. His claim to fame was the Dockworkers corruption scandals back in the eighties. He's got his hand in everything dirty in this city. Drugs, gambling, prostitution, racketeering, bribery, you name it, he's done it."

"Smuggling?" she asked, archly.

"Probably," he said. "OK, Huey, Louie, get down to Brannigan's Wharf. On the Q.T. See what you can see, but be careful. We may have officers in a precarious situation. Report in once you get there."

"Yes, sir," they chorused and turned to leave.

"Take the wolf with you,"Thatcher said, quickly.

They all looked at her.

She shrugged. "Diefenbaker was the last ... uh ... person to see them. He could help."

Dief yipped.

Welsh looked at Dief. "Take him." He leaned over and spoke to the wolf directly. "You listen to the detectives, or you answer to me. No solo heroics. You got it, Mister?"

Dief looked at Thatcher. "What he said," she said, sternly, pointing at Welsh.

He barked his agreement. The three of them left the office.

"Elaine, I want a complete rundown on Frankie Nardo. See what connections he has to Brannigan's Wharf or anybody connected to Brannigan's Wharf or anybody connected to anybody connected to Brannigan's Wharf."

"I'm on it," she said, hurrying from the room.

Welsh looked at Thatcher. "We'll find them."

She nodded. "Why is he called 'Toothpick'?"

"Trust me, Inspector," he said, grimly. "You really don't want to know."

She stared at him for a moment. "Understood," she said, rising. She smoothed down her suit jacket, then extended her hand. Welsh took it. "Thank you, Lieutenant. You can reach me at the Consulate. Come along, Turnbull."

Turnbull smiled a goodbye. Welsh clapped him on the back. "Good work, Constable."

His grin lit his face like the sun. "Thank you, sir."

Welsh's tread was heavy as he returned to his office. He meant what he'd said to the young woman. With two officers missing, he wished with all his heart that he didn't know why Frank Nardo was called "The Toothpick." He offered up a quick prayer for his detective and the Mountie before picking up the top file from the teetering stack on his desk.


	26. Chapter 26

**CHAPTER TWENTY SIX**

"The Lieutenant said to bring the wolf."

"We did bring him," Huey replied. He looked back at the car. Inside, Diefenbaker looked plaintively back at them. "I don't want him barking up a storm."

"He's not gonna be much help in the car," Guardino said. "Awww, look at him." Dief, his head cocked to one side, was pawing the window. "Reminds me of Poochie."

"Poochie?"

"My dog when I was growing up," he said, wistfully. "I loved that mutt."

Huey couldn't take the puppy-eyed look from both Dief and Louis, and gave in. "OK, but keep him quiet."

Guardino bent down so that he was face to face with Dief through the glass. He pointed at Dief, then ostentatiously put a finger to his lips. Dief bobbed his head. "See?" he told his partner, and opened the door. Dief jumped out, wagging his tail.

They were parked in one of the many lots that served Brannigan's Wharf. This time of day, it had been hard to find a space on the busy working waterfront. They had circled a couple of times looking for a spot, keeping an eye out for Vecchio's green Buick. They didn't find it.

As they walked toward the pier, Dief sprinted ahead. "Hey," Huey called, but he paid no attention.

"He's deaf, remember? He has to be looking at you." Guardino said, trotting after the wolf.

"Hey, Louis!" he called after his disappearing partner. "So, what's your excuse?" he muttered.

Diefenbaker led them to a cluster of storage containers, the kind that stacked on the big container ships. It was like navigating a maze. As they rounded the corner of one stack, they spotted a green 1971 Buick Riviera in mint condition.

"Good wolf," Huey muttered. They approached the vehicle cautiously, but it was empty and locked. They peered through the driver's window. Two styrofoam cups were nestled in the console between the front seats, a frozen brown substance in one. "Coffee's cold," Guardino said, stating the obvious. He pointed out the Stetson on the front passenger seat to Huey. Dief tugged at his pants leg. He walked forward a few paces, then looked back over his shoulder.

"I think Lassie wants us to follow," Huey said, drily, taking a dutiful step.

"Did you know Lassie was really a Laddie?" Guardino said, conversationally, as they followed the white wolf through the canyons of containers.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, boy dogs make better actors," he said, authoritatively. "It's a known fact."

They caught up to Dief at the end of the last container where he waited patiently for them. From this vantage, they had a good view of the layout of the pier and the buildings that occupied it, including warehouses, a boatworks, and a bar.

"I've been in there," Huey said, suddenly, pointing to the Redeye Bar. "The name was different, though." His brow furrowed in thought, but he couldn't recall it. It was several years back. "One of my snitches tipped me to a guy who wanted to be just like Al Pacino in _Scarface_."

"I love that movie," Guardino enthused, miming holding a machine gun. "Say hello to my li'l frien." He sprayed the pier with imaginary bullets.

Dief and Huey looked at him.

"It's a great movie," he said defensively.

Dief whined.

"Anyway, it was a rough place. Biker bar," Huey explained. "Good chili," he added, after a beat.

"Maybe Vecchio and Fraser are in there having lunch. We should check it out." Guardino said. At Huey's exasperated look, he shrugged. "I'm hungry."

"Later," he said.

Dief moved forward out of the cover of the containers. Then, turned and looked over his shoulder.

Guardino said, "One of us should go with him. Just stroll along like we're walking the nice doggie."

"You go," Huey said. "I'll call in. Let the Lieutenant know that we found the car."

"OK," he said. He removed his tie, unbuttoned the collar of his shirt, rumpled his hair and otherwise managed to look thoroughly dissolute in the space of sixty seconds. "Lead on, boy," he told Dief. As he sauntered out onto the pier, Dief kept pace with him. They both assumed a casual air, but made their way inexorably down to the docks. Dief kept his nose down the whole way.

Huey returned to their vehicle. He used the radio. "Elaine?"

"I'm here, Jack," she said, quickly.

He told her about the car.

"Oh, Jack," she said, upset. "Ray would never leave the Riv in a place like that. Unless, he had no choice."

"I know," he said, "but there could be lots of reasons why they left the car here."

"Like a hot lead," she said, not believing it.

"Yeah."

"So, what kind of lead could they be following without a car?"

"I don't know."

"I can get the spare keys off of Frannie. Bring the Riv home for Ray, if you think that's a good idea."

"I do," Huey confirmed. "It's a wonder it wasn't stripped last night."

"You think it was there all night without them?"

"If Diefenbaker carried the note from the Wharf all the way across town and was on the Consulate doorstep in the morning ..."

She sighed. "I see your point. I'll pass this on to the Lieutenant, and meet you."

"Don't come here. Meet us at the Wendy's on Foster in an hour."

"I will. You and Louis, be careful!"

He promised they would, then signed off. He thought for a moment, then reached into his breast pocket and removed a small black book. He flipped through it, then dialed a number on his cell phone. He got an answering machine. "Reg. It's Jack. Call me back. It's important." He locked up the car and returned to the container area.

Louis and Diefenbaker were taking their time, looking for all the world like a seedy, slightly inebriated man walking his dog. As he watched, Diefenbaker's casual posture changed. He stared at a warehouse at the end of the pier, looked over his shoulder at Louis, and tossed his head repeatedly. It couldn't have been clearer if the wolf stood up and pointed with a paw. Louis looked back, spotted Jack watching him, and looked meaningfully at the warehouse. Jack gave him a short wave. Dief resumed his casual demeanor, sniffed around in an apparently random fashion, and worked his way back to Jack's position, Louis weaving in his wake.

Huey bent and lifted Dief's muzzle so he looked directly into his eyes. "The ware - house?" he enunciated slowly.

Dief yipped in the affirmative.

"Can he do undercover or what?" Louis enthused. "He was perfect! I told you male dogs make the best actors."

"Good boy," Huey said, patting his head.

They drove to the fast food restaurant several blocks away from the Wharf area and used the drive-thru. Huey ordered a cheeseburger for Dief, then a second one, when that disappeared in one gulp. After a while, a taxi pulled up alongside their car. Elaine stepped out and paid the driver. She squinted up at the leaden sky before climbing into the back seat of their car.

"Hi," she said, then "Hey, Dief." Dief wagged his tail excitedly and whined at her until she petted him. "I think there's a storm coming." Dief nodded. He could smell it on the air. "Frannie's worried," she continued, "but she gave me the keys." She sat forward between the two seats. "Can I have some fries? I didn't have any lunch."

Guardino handed her a small paper bag. "We got you a chicken sandwich."

"Thanks," she said, gratefully, then took a bite. "So, what's the plan?"

"Dief fingered the warehouse at the end of the pier. We're gonna stake it out," he said. He pointed a thumb at his partner. "Jack's got a snitch working the bar."

She nodded thoughtfully as she chewed. "I checked the dock records. It's murky. But, I think the Nardo family has a finger in every pie on that pier through a couple dummy corporations." She took another bite. "Including the Redeye Bar. That's notorious."

"Yeah," Guardino said, "Two stiffs there already this year." He slurped Coke noisily through a straw.

"Did you see any barges?"

"There's a decrepit one in the boatyard," Huey said. "But that's it."

They finished eating and drove back to the Wharf. Jack and Elaine walked casually into the area of the stacked containers, while Dief and Louis stayed in the car. Without the wolf's guidance, they wandered around a little while before Jack spotted the Riviera. It really was like a maze in here. She used the key to open the door and they climbed in. He found a small pair of binoculars under the driver's seat. She picked up a crumpled paper bag from the back. She peered inside at wadded up sandwich wrappings, before picking up the Stetson. She looked inside and under the brim. Nothing.

She was disappointed. "I don't know what I was hoping for. Another note saying 'we went thataway'?"

Huey chuckled. "Or maybe trailblazes cut into the walls of the containers."

They both looked suddenly at the container walls, then laughed at their foolishness. Elaine drove the vehicle back to the parking lot where Huey got out and climbed in his car. They said their goodbyes and she drove away. Then, Huey, Guardino and Dief moved their car into the spot that the Riv had vacated. It had a perfect vantage for the pier and the warehouse. Louis felt the hairs rising on the back of his neck as he realized that the missing men had positioned themselves here for that exact purpose. He shivered, then lit a cigarette. Jack settled back with a cigar. Dief, accustomed to stakeouts, curled up in the back seat, covering his nose with his tail to keep out the smoke. He was asleep in an instant and dreamt of swimming after barges and biting bad men. It was a good dream.


	27. Chapter 27A

**NOTE FROM AUTHOR: I accidentally posted chapter 7 again, not 27. So, here is the proper chapter in the flow. Sorry. Any way to un-post after posting?**

**This is the last chapter in this Part One: Chicago. The story continues in Part Two: Canada. Enjoy.**

**CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN A**

Fraser braced himself as the barge lurched hugely, flinging him against the side of the crate and back again. He winced at the sound of Ray's head hitting the wood. Fraser was tired, sore, cramped and cold. But, he wasn't seasick. At least, not yet. Ray moaned as he swayed and fell against him. The boat tilted again, and he nearly toppled off his perch. He clung to Fraser's supportive arms, trying to regain his balance while hanging on for dear life. Any embarrassment at this show of weakness was a thing of the past. Like his dignity. He swallowed convulsively as Fraser propped him up again. The last thing he wanted to do was start a barf-a-rama in their tiny home away from home

The promised storm had overtaken them hours ago. Until then, Ray and Fraser had enjoyed mostly unimpeded ingress and egress on the barge, so long as they stayed below the sight level of the tug. The new tugboat still had no view of the area of the barge where their crate was situated. Hunkered down, they were able to move relatively freely. Taking turns with the spyglass, they had determined that there were six men on the tug. Shortly after the transfer of the barges, five of them had bustled around the deck, securing the boat for foul weather, while the captain sat in the wheelhouse, not surprisingly, at the wheel. They conversed exclusively in French and seemed to share an easy camaraderie that bespoke longstanding relationships. Ray, who had three years of French in high school, couldn't make out a single word. Fraser did a bit better with the Quebecois accent, though it was difficult to discern individual words over the sound of the engine. Nothing he heard gave him a clue to their destination, though he learned a few new idioms that made him blush. One burly fellow in particular displayed a ribald sense of humor that his companions seemed to find hilarious.

The reluctant stowaways were in the same fix as before - outnumbered, outgunned, and unable to reach the tugboat from their position on a barge at the end of a fifty foot tow cable. Their only advantage was that no one knew they were here. They had used that advantage to reconnoiter. While they couldn't open every crate, they had seen enough to confirm that they were indeed carrying large quantities of cocaine and assault weapons. The weapons were packed for shipment, covered in oil, and wrapped in plastic. Ammunition was apparently not included in the deal for they had found none. They had carefully restored the crates so that their tampering could not be detected.

This tugboat was similar in configuration to the one that had towed them out from Brannigan's Wharf. Ray's notebook contained the registry numbers, and other salient information (Fraser having sent his with Dief). Together with the information they had gathered on the Chicago end, they had a fair amount of intelligence on this international smuggling operation. But they were unable to communicate it. The cell phone was beyond repair. Of course, the tugboat had a radio. But, there was no way to get to it. At least, not while the boat was in motion.

They had prepared for a second night in the crate, albeit a colder, wetter, rougher one than the last. Ray had the idea to fashion tarps into crude windbreakers. They had cut them off two of the smaller crates on the outer edge of the deck. It would look like the rising wind had ripped them away. The tarps provided them some protection from wind and snow.

The northeast heading had changed to due east as they had neared the Straits of Mackinac. The temperature was dropping as night was falling quickly. But, even in the Straits, they had not encountered another boat.

"If it wasn't so cold, we could swim ashore," Ray said, wistfully, looking south to the lights of the town of St. Ignace on the Canadian side.

"The distance is deceptive, Ray. The straits are five miles across at their narrowest point and twenty fathoms deep," Fraser said. "But, you're right. It is too cold to make the attempt." The wind whipped his words away and he had to repeat himself. He pointed to the starboard side as an ice floe drifted by. "The Coast Guard must use ice breakers here to keep the straits open through the winter."

As the barge passed under the majestic Mackinac Bridge, they looked up longingly. There was little traffic. The wind was picking up and snow had started swirling around. Still, one or two cars moved on the bridge, oblivious to the plight of the men below. Ray imagined the drivers heading home to a hot meal and a snug bed.

"We're in the Lake they call Huron now, Ray," Fraser said, as they passed the marker. He paused. "Though, hydrologically speaking, it really is one big Lake. Michigan-Huron. The largest freshwater Lake in the world."

Ray was too cold to care. The water was getting rougher. Whitecaps shone in the lights of the tug. The snow was falling in big wet clumps now. He shivered as he pulled his coat closer around him, and they reluctantly retreated to the crate.

Soon, the barge was pitching violently. They had been riding it out a couple of hours as best they could, huddled in their pieces of plastic tarp. The wind howled and shook their little shelter with malevolent force. The lid was firmly fastened, keeping out most of the snow. Ray longed for fresh air, but it was a forlorn wish. The wind would take the lid if they kept it open. Between the cold, the wet snow that found its way in through the cracks, and the seasickness which was roiling his head and stomach, he was utterly miserable. The confined space wasn't helping. It was loud, dark, wet, cold, smelly, and, worst of all, moving. All of these conditions assaulted the senses. If this kept up, he knew he'd be adding regurgitated peaches and pemmican to the mix. That reckless thought triggered his gag reflex and he heaved drily several times, barely managing to stop the urge to vomit. He moaned again.

"Fraser?" His voice was barely above a whisper.

"Yes, Ray," he said, softly.

"Do something for me?"

"Whatever I can."

"Take out my gun."

Fraser reached into Ray's coat and withdrew the automatic from his shoulder holster.

"You got it?"

"Yes."

"Is it loaded?"

"Yes."

"Is the safety on?"

"Yes."

"Take it off."

He hesitated a moment, but did as instructed.

"OK." Ray swallowed compulsively several times before he could speak again. "Now, shoot me."

"No!"

"Shoot me now!"

"No, Ray!" Fraser hastily returned the gun to the holster and buttoned Ray's coat all the way up. He tugged the plastic tarp closer around his shoulders.

"Please, Fraser," he pleaded.

He patted his back, awkwardly. "This will pass. You can't die of seasickness."

"Oh, yes, I can," Ray wailed, "Just watch me." He moaned again, gripping his stomach as a wave of cramps rolled through him.

"Ray, listen to me." As he continued to moan, Fraser grabbed his shoulders and shook him. "Are you listening?"

"Yeah," he mumbled.

"Seasickness, or _mal-de-mer_, is caused by your brain's inability to process the conflicting information it is receiving from your body. But, there _are _remedies."

"Yeah, Dramamine!"

"There are _natural_ remedies, Ray, that have existed long before modern medicines."

"So, help me, Benny, if you tell me the Inuit chew seal blubber for this, I'll – I'll –" He had to stop as the heaving began again at that queasy image.

Fraser, to his credit, did not retreat from the line of fire. He grasped both of Ray's hands and turned them, palm-side up. He moved his thumb over his skin to a spot just above the wrists and pressed down firmly. Keeping the pressure steady, he said, "Acupressure on the Nei Kuan point - this spot here - has been used by the Chinese since ancient times to curb nausea and vomiting."

He struggled weakly, but Fraser held on tight. "Lemme go. I'm gonna hurl!"

Fraser ignored him. "Now, take deep breaths. Like this." He inhaled deeply through his nose, then let it out slowly. "Again."

Ray tried to disengage, in real fear that he was going to throw up on his friend, but he was facing both the Immovable Object and the Irresistible Force in one Canadian package. It was easier to go along. He took a deep breath and almost lost it at the ripe smells in the crate. He swallowed hard, then let the breath out slowly, breathing in tandem with Fraser. After a minute or so, he no longer noticed the smell.

"Good, Ray. Now, sit up straight. Head up. Feet flat on the floor. That's it. Keep your head and upper body balanced over your hips." He positioned his own body as he spoke. Ray followed suit. "Good," he said. "As the boat moves, go with the rhythm of the waves. It's less tiring than fighting to hang on or to passively let the motion toss you around." He drew another deep breath. "Ready? Feel that? Ride the wave. That's right, Ray. Just like that. Keep breathing." After several minutes of this tandem exercise, Ray felt the nausea back off a bit. He took another deep breath and let it out slowly. Yes, he was definitely feeling better.

Fraser's voice was soothing. "Don't think about your body, Ray. Let it breathe. Let it ride the rhythm of the water. Let it go. " He took a deep breath and let it out. So did Ray. "It's important to keep your mind occupied. Perhaps, we should try a mantra."

"What's that?"

"Rhythmic chanting to induce a tranquil mental state."

"You mean ... like singing?"

"Well, uh, yes. Good idea, Ray," he said. He thought a moment, then started to sing:

_A long, long time ago, I can still remember how that music used to make me smile._

_And I knew if I had my chance, that I could make those people dance, and_

_Maybe they'd be happy for awhile._

_But, February made me shiver, with every paper I'd deliver ..._

Ray concentrated on his breathing and riding the waves. At first, Fraser's husky

tenor filled the small space of the crate merely as background noise. But, as the song went on, he found himself listening to the words, remembering how he and Marco Metroni had played the song over and over on the record player in Marco's room, dissecting the lyrics with all the seriousness that two twelve year olds could muster. The lengthy verses were replete with mysterious meaning, and he found himself concentrating on the lush imagery:

... _I was a lonely teenage broncin' buck, with a pink carnation and a pickup truck, but_

_I knew I was out of luck, the day the music died._

_I started singing ..._

Tentatively at first, Ray joined Fraser in the chorus:

_I started singing, bye, bye, Miss American Pie_

_Drove my Chevy to the levee, but the levee was dry_

_Them good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye, singing_

"_This'll be the day that I die_

_This'll be the day that I die."_

Slowly, his voice gathered strength, and Ray joined Fraser in singing the classic anthem to rock and roll. When Fraser forgot the words of a later verse, Ray took the lead:

_And, there we were, all in one place, a generation Lost in Space_

_With no time left to start again_

_So, come on, Jack-be-nimble, Jack-be-quick, Jack Flash sat on a candlesick, cause_

_Fire is the Devil's only friend..._

Fraser picked it up again and they continued together to the big finish:

_They were singing, bye, bye, Miss American Pie_

_Drove my Chevy to the levee, but the levee was dry._

_Then good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye, singing, _

"_This'll be the day that I die!"_

Ray laughed out loud. He hadn't sung that since before Marco moved away! He was amazed that he could still remember all the words. He was about to tell Fraser when he realized that the nausea was gone. It was just ... gone.

He took a deep breath and let it out. "How ... how did you do that?"

"I didn't, Ray. You did." He let go of his wrists. Ray held his breath, but his stomach stayed calm.

"Thanks."

"No problem, Ray."

He was curious. "Why that song?"

"It's the longest and most intricate I could think of, except for – " he stopped. "Well, never mind."

"What?"

"I'd rather not say," he said, avoiding his eyes. "Under the circumstances."

Ray grinned, "What is it? Some dirty ditty?'

"No!" He protested, then seeing that he wasn't going to drop the subject, he said. "If you must know, Ray," he shrugged, "_The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald _first sprang to mind._"_

"Oh," Ray said. "Well, I'm glad you thought better of it." He paused. "Marco and I used to play _American Pie _over and over, trying to figure out what it meant."

"As did Innussiq and me."

Ray was surprised. "I thought you didn't have electricity back then?"

"We didn't. We used my grandmother's wind-up Victrola."

He frowned, "Doesn't that play 78s?"

"Yes."

"Don McLean must have sounded like Alvin and the Chipmunks."

"Y-yes," Fraser said, uncertain of the reference, assuming it must be another pop group of the seventies that he had missed.

There was a companionable silence, then Ray ventured, "What do you think is happening back home?"

He spoke confidently. "Diefenbaker got through, Ray."

"Sure, he did. He's one tough wolf."

"The Inspector and the Lieutenant will be working diligently on the case."

"They're probably looking for us right now." Ray looked dejectedly around at the crate. "They're never gonna find us out here."

Fraser didn't answer, assuming the question was rhetorical.

Ray rode out another big wave, then cleared his throat. "OK. This one's for Dief," he said, before launching into_ Hound Dog._

They were still singing when they crossed the border.

**NOTE FROM AUTHOR: This is the end of Part One: Chicago. Part Two: Canada, continues the adventure ... I hope you have enjoyed the story so far.**


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